


love bade me welcome

by mmtion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Human AU, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, The Roadhouse, bisexual!dean, characterisation based on what I wish the show was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28939104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmtion/pseuds/mmtion
Summary: Cas gives Dean a wooden carving to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary.But, despite their friends freaking out about it, it's not like that.(or; Dean and Cas build a gentle life together, in the wrong order.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Ellen Harvelle/Bobby Singer
Comments: 25
Kudos: 139





	love bade me welcome

**Author's Note:**

> this is a human!au where I indulge my domesticity hankering. this is just every trope I've enjoyed since the finale squeezed into one fic.  
> 
> 
> (apparently the Roadhouse is supposed to be in Nebraska? But then I kept writing scenes that required a coast. so ignore how those contrast each other, and imagine whatever US seaside town you like. You’ll notice from my spelling that I’m not familiar with any of them.)  
> (I also couldn't figure out a neat way to involve Jack in this universe! But assume post-fic that he finds his way to them.)
> 
> -

_Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,_

_Guilty of dust and sin._

_But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack,_

_From my first entrance in,_

_Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,_

_If I lack’d anything._

_‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here.’_

_Love said, ‘You shall be he.’_

_‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,_

_I cannot look on thee.’_

_Love took my hand and smiling did reply,_

_‘Who made the eyes but I?’_

_  
LOVE (III) - George Herbert  _

-

On the jukebox, someone has paid for the fourth Creedence Clearwater Revival song, and Dean is happy. 

He’s squeezed his closest friends into a booth, whilst Claire and Ash manage the bar. _The Roadhouse_ is busy, but not rushed. There’s a pleasant ambiance, and it’s a Friday night, so Cas has offered to be designated driver for the lot of them. Charlie and Eileen are having a fast conversation in sign language that Dean is too buzzed to focus on, while Benny and Jo are talking trash about this weekend’s football game. 

Cas is chatting about his recent woodcarving class to Sam, and he says, “Oh, that reminds me,” before he slides out of the booth and potters over to the bar to rummage behind it. Dean watches him go with an absent focus, sipping at his beer and his eyes floating over the new sweater Cas bought from the farmer’s market. It looks soft, rolled up Cas’ forearms, and the blue takes on a purple hue in the neon signs they’ve hung around. 

Cas walks back and stops by Dean’s side of the booth. Dean shifts to make room and Cas settles beside him. He pulls, from behind his back, a small wooden object, and hands it to Dean. 

Dean isn’t good with gifts. (Eileen thinks it’s because of his upbringing, but she thinks most of Dean’s failings are because of his upbringing, so what does she know?) But this - this is something different. 

It’s made of butternut wood, and the carving is choppy enough to tell Dean it’s handmade. He runs a finger over the freshly-oiled grain, and delights at the bumps and still-rough edges. 

It’s a bee, on top of a honeycomb pattern, about the size of Dean’s hand, fingers and all. He rotates it, and sees today’s date etched into the plain backing. He grins, and says to Cas, “You made this?”

“That’s beautiful,” Charlie says, and Dean’s ears go red as he sees the others are all looking. He pushes the embarrassment away, though, so he can agree with her. Cas deserves compliments, and Dean is trying to get better at giving them. 

“It’s amazing,” says Dean. He holds it aloft, imagining how it would look on a wall. “Where do you think it would fit? Maybe behind the bar? Or do you think you’ll make others we can hang next to it?”

Cas shrugs, and reaches for his lemonade. “It’s up to you. It’s your anniversary gift.”

Dean frowns for a second. Sam snorts, and asks for the both of them, “Anniversary for what?”

Calmly, Cas replies, “Our wedding - the tradition for five years is wood.”

And then all hell breaks loose.

-

Here’s the thing. 

Dean can see, from how an outside perspective, how it would be confusing, but really, it went like this. 

Cas said one day, five years ago, “You know, I’m not actually a US citizen.” 

And three days later, after researching and calling lawyers and driving himself crazy, Dean said, “Well, we’re getting married, then.” 

The ceremony itself was rather quick. They asked another couple at the courthouse to be their witnesses, in return for the same favour. Dean buttoned up one of his cleaner shirts, and Cas wore a deep blue tie. 

They took a picture, because Dean read it would be good evidence for the interview he still has nightmares about. In the photo, Dean has his arm flung around Cas’s shoulders, and Cas is smiling all big and gummy and scrunched eyes. They went for burgers and beer afterwards, and then back to the bar. Dean put the marriage certificate in the fire-proof safe they keep in the garage, along with the printed photo and the parking ticket from the courthouse lot. 

(Sometimes, when Dean wakes up too hot or to the echoes of motel-muffled-screams or- or _whatever_ , he goes down the basement and holds the piece of paper that proves Cas is here to stay. But only sometimes.) 

Anyway. 

All that is to say - Dean never thought anyone would find out.

-

There’s a moment of silence, and then everyone is talking at once. 

“What the _hell_ , Dean-”

“ _Five years_?”

“Who proposed?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I had a bet going, you dolts!”

Dean grips the wood carving so tight he forces himself to put it down, else he snaps the thing in half. 

Cas looks, for his part, mostly confused. He has a little crease between his brow. Dean has the urge to smooth it out with the pad of his thumb - before he remembers Cas got them into this mess, and any charitable thoughts fly away fast. 

Dean raises his hands up. “Okay, alright, _enough_!” He barks. “Get your collective panties out of a twist. It’s not like that.”

Thankfully, they do shut up. Sam’s voice is irritatingly gentle as he asks, “What is it like, then?”

Dean’s face is burning. He hopes the lights are dim enough to hide that. “Cas wasn’t a US citizen, alright?” He gestures with his beer bottle. “Now he is.”

Eileen narrows her eyes, and signs, with a doubtful expression, “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” he says back, making his signs language sharp and deliberate. It doesn’t affect her expression. 

Cas nods, finally deciding to be useful to the conversation. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I had forgotten we hadn’t told anyone.”

Charlie points at him. “So you did keep it a secret!”

This is where Cas falters, and he looks to Dean. Dean groans. “It - it just never came up,” he says, aware of what a shitty defence it is. But really, it’s the truth. They didn’t want to make a big deal - Dean was terrified it might jinx the deportation agents to their door - and honestly, he didn’t know how to work it into conversation. He does what he does best and goes on the attack. “I knew you’d all react like this!”

“Like you wouldn’t be the same if- if Benny and Jo got married!” Charlies gestures. 

Both Benny and Jo pull the same, disgusted face. 

“No, you’re right, that’s different,” Charlie amends. 

Dean splutters, though he’s not sure what he’s defending against at the point. 

“Really,” says Cas. “I apologise for not sharing this with you all. I understand keeping secrets is a sore spot for a number of you, due to all your individual trauma.”

Dean puts his head in his hands. 

“But nothing about our relationship has changed. Dean is telling the truth - he offered to marry me to protect my citizenship here.” Cas takes a moment, and frowns at the wooden carving on the table. “I only- I meant to mark the occasion. Not to create an argument.”

Cas’s ability to cut through social bullshit with unnerving simplicity should be bottled and sold for a fucking fortune. The effect on the group is instant - no one could possibly have a rebuttal for _that_. 

Eileen clears her throat. “It is a lovely gift, Castiel.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, shifting to sling an arm over his wife’s shoulders. “You said you took a class at the community class?”

The conversation moves on, but Dean stays quiet. He sets aside his beer bottle, and picks up the carving again. 

It really would look nice above the bar. 

-

Later that night, when the group tires and Cas drives them home and Dean closes up the bar, he waits upstairs for Cas to return. 

He sits on the couch they bought from a charity furniture store because Cas said he liked old things with personality (and then levelled a look at Dean that Dean elected to ignore, even as he counted out the cash for the damn thing). 

He nurses a nightcap whiskey, swilling the liquid so the ice chinks in the glass. 

Sometimes this happens - he gets lost in his own head, especially when he takes a second to realise how weird his and Cas’ life must look from the outside. 

They were roommates before they were friends. After Sam moved out, an adult going to a faraway college, Dean had an empty room and too much quiet to deal with. Cas was the one who answered his Craigslist advert, ten years ago. 

At the time, Cas was fresh to having a home again and was working at the local Gas-n-Sip, while Dean was busting seventy-hour-weeks as a case manager. They became friends over coffee and shared pizza and Dr Sexy re-runs, in a way that crept on Dean until it was too late to go back. They shared crackling Lynyrd Skynyrd records and absent fathers and lives spent caring for other people. Cas made Dean laugh mostly by accident, and Dean spent more time than he’d admit explaining pop culture jokes after he’d made them. 

The real shift came when Ellen announced she was selling The Roadhouse, and Jo didn’t want it. 

“Bobby and I are going travelling,” she said over one lunch, whilst Dean’s sandwich stuck in his frozen hands. “Jo wants to open her own business - a gun shop, I expect - because god forbid she follow in her mother’s footsteps. So Bobby suggested I offer it to you, before he offers you the scrapheap.”

Dean had blinked, and croaked out that he needed to think about it. It was Cas who found him hours later, head in his hands on the couch, four hours before he needed to get back to work to help kids who reminded him of Sam, kids he couldn’t save because of fucking paperwork, kids who spat at him for suggesting they get therapy. 

And here’s the moment Dean will take to his deathbed unshared - Cas cupped his jaw with one hand and said in the kindest voice Dean ever heard, “It’s okay for you to be selfish this time, Dean.”

So they took over The Roadhouse together, and moved into the apartment above it. 

Now, the door opens and Cas finds him a similar position to those years ago - seven, almost. Cas flings his keys into the clay bowl Jo had sent them from Myanmar, along with a postcard that said, ‘ _We’re so glad you’re not here!’_

Dean hears Cas sigh before he comes to sit beside him. The couch bloats with his weight, but Dean doesn’t look up. 

“Are you freaking out about this,” says Cas, making it not a question at all.

“No,” lies Dean. He lets out an exhale, and then adds, “Do you ever think - do people think we’re weird?”

He can almost _feel_ Cas’ head tilt, before he says, simply, “We _are_ weird, Dean.”

Dean barks out a laugh in surprise. He finally turns, to see Cas with one leg crossed over the couch cushion to face him. “And you’re okay with that?”

Cas shrugs. “I always have been. I don’t expect other people to understand our friendship. It’s not theirs, anyway.”

“Right,” says Dean. He falls back and rests his head on the back of the seat - there’s a stain on the ceiling he should get around to repainting. He swallows, and says, “Thanks, Cas.” 

He blindly throws out his hand - and Cas catches it, holds it. “You’re very welcome, Dean.” Cas squeezes his hand, dry and warm, once, before standing. “I am going to bed now. Would you like me to open the bar up in the morning?”

“Nah,” says Dean. “I’ll do it.” 

He has a wood carving to hang up, after all. 

-

Eileen swings by in the mid-morning for their customary Saturday brunch, which is usually just having too much caffeine for their own good and bitching lovingly about Sam. He pours creamer in his coffee and brown sugar in hers, and waits for the inevitable. 

But she’s always been more patient than him. 

He throws his hands up into the pointed silence. “It really isnt a big deal,” he says. 

She pulls a know-it-all face. “You kept it a secret,” she points out. 

He leans his hands onto the bar, facing her. “It wasn’t a _secret_ ,” he says. “We just didn’t throw a fucking parade.” 

Eileen pauses at that phrasing for some reason, and then asks, “Would you have married Jo?”

Dean would have spit out his coffee if he’d had the misfortune of drinking at that moment. Instead, he settled for a gobsmacked expression. “What? What does that have to do with anything?”

“If Jo was going to be kicked out of the country,” she signs, more patiently than the situation calls for. “Would you marry her?”

“Yes,” says Dean, eventually. But the answer feels sour on his tongue, and he frowns. He looks down at his fingers, clenched on the wood. “Probably. I mean - she’s like my _sister_. I’d do it, but it would be a little weird.”

Eileen is looking at him like he has either recently hit his head or is being deliberately stupid. He decides to fucking get out of this conversation before she starts to elaborate, and he says, “Speaking of Jo -”

But then Cas comes downstairs in his pyjamas and all hopes for fresh conversation float away. 

“Hello, Eileen,” he says, in a sleep-croaked rumble. He’s wearing Dean’s Springsteen t-shirt, a little frayed on the seams from Cas’s extra bulk, and plaid bottoms that trail on the floor by his heels. 

Dean reaches out to ruffle Cas’s hair further as he offers, “Coffee?”

“Please,” Cas says, sitting next to Eileen and bumping his shoulder against hers companionably. 

Eileen watches all this with a bemused expression, and then says to Dean, “In all fairness, we shouldn’t have been surprised. You two already act like a married couple.”

Dean lets out a hard-done-by groan, and moves to offer coffee to their only other morning patron, a trucker wearing a Florida-flag cap. When he comes back, Eileen and Cas are signing in quick speed at each other, and then immediately stop when he returns. He squints at them. “What?” he says, flat. 

Cas sighs. “She was suggesting we throw - a party,” he says, and it lands odd from his mouth. 

“Like a reception,” Eileen explains, in her best innocent expression. “A wedding reception. To celebrate your wedding.”

“Yeah, I got your point.” Dean rubs a hand over his jaw. 

She raises her brow as Dean doesn’t continue. “Cas thinks it would be a nice idea.”

Cas makes a harried voice in the back of his throat, and scowls at her. “I said parties are always nice. _Then_ she suggested making it our wedding reception.”

“And what did you say to that?” For some reason, the answer is important to Dean. 

Cas’s shoulders hunch, just a little. He frowns at his coffee mug. It has a cartoon drawing of the Grand Canyon, a souvenir from their trip two years ago. “I said it would probably be just as nice,” he admits. “I always like having our friends together.”

Dean deflates, all at once. “Fine.” he says, before he holds a finger up at Eileen to stop her celebrating too soon. “We can have a little get-together. But it’s not - it’s not going to be a _reception_. We’ll just make it - I don’t know. Celebrating Cas’s citizenship or something.”

“Fine,” says Eileen, though she still looks like she won something. “When?”

Dean throws up his hands. “I’m not planning the damn thing. You choose.”

“We’ll have it at our house, then,” she counters. 

“Sam’s cool with that?”

“He will be,” she promises, half-threat. 

There are a number of times where Dean is very thankful Sam brought Eileen into his life - this is not one of those times.

He fills up Cas’s mug while fighting the urge to growl at her and adds the hazelnut syrup they keep underneath the bar just for Cas. 

“That reminds me,” says Cas. “How is the kentia palm plant?”

Eileen rolls her eyes. “Huge,” she says, and holds her hand up to her eye level to illustrate. “I’m not sure whether we’ll need to re-pot it soon.”

Cas shakes his head in between sips of coffee. The steam makes the tips of his dark hair curl in, just slightly. “You probably won’t - once they reach six feet, they tend to stop growing.”

“I wish Sam did too,” offers Dean. 

Eileen clinks her mug with his, in silent commiseration. 

“I’m going to go by the nursery today, actually,” says Cas to Eileen. “If you would like to pick out a friend for the kentia.”

Dean glares at Cas in suspicion. “You’d better not be buying another plant for the apartment.”

Cas’s gaze is mild. “Am I forbidden?”

Dean glowers back. “If I say you are, will you bring back three plants to spite me?”

Cas takes a moment to pretend to think about it. “Yes,” he says. 

“Fine,” says Dean. “Turn our apartment into a jungle. See if I care.”

-

Sure enough, later that evening, Cas comes through the bar doors with something that looks like seaweed dripping down his arms and swinging past his hips. Dean pauses in drying a glass to watch him come close. His smile twitches in a threat to stretch wider. 

“Where’s that going?” he greets as Cas gets close, and deposits the plant on the bar. 

Cas takes a step back to squint at it with fresh eyes. “I was hoping in the bathroom. Lots of natural light, and we won’t need to water it ourselves with the humidity.”

Dean reaches out to pinch one of the leaves between his fingers. Not seaweed - but the waves of the trailing leaves resemble it. “What is it?”

“A fishbone cactus,” says Cas. “They’re from the Mexican rainforest.”

“Cool,” says Dean. “I’ll hang it up after my shift. We still have some spare hooks I can drill in near the window.”

“Thank you, Dean,” replies Cas, sincere and gravelly for it. 

He takes the plant through the backroom and up the stairs that lead to their apartment, before coming back and washing his hands to help. Dean is tempted to tell him he needn’t bother - it’s a surprisingly quiet Saturday night, and Ash is already here anyway. But Dean would like the company, so he doesn’t say anything of the sort.

-

Thursday night is quiz night at The Roadhouse. Dean and Cas used to take turns in writing the quizzes, but Dean’s questions were along the lines of “On what Kansas album does the song _Dust in the Wind_ appear on?” or “When should you replace your steering rack boot?” whilst Cas would ask, “Why do you think the first fish crawled from the ocean to walk?” 

So now Charlie runs the quizzes. 

It’s become a real staple of the local community. Charlie has pop culture knowledge pouring out of her ears, along with her tendency to Wikipedia-spiral and research any topic she doesn’t already know about. It’s a great way of bringing in business and competitive customers. 

Cas and Dean have worked out their own system of being able to play while still working. They stay at the bar and serve customers, handling the rush in between the rounds especially. Meanwhile, Jo and Sam sit at the bar with the sheet of paper to write the answers down. 

It works well, apart from that time Dean was pouring a pint at the wrong end and yelled across the answer for the whole venue to hear. 

(Whatever - he was right, and that’s what matters.) 

This time, it’s a math round, which Sam and Cas are acing, so Dean has the chance to just take a breather and lean near Jo. “You regret not buying this place, yet?” he asks, which he does every few weeks or so. It’s one way to surefire annoy her - but if she ever says yes, at least he’ll know, and he’ll pass her the keys. It’s her birthright, he figures. 

She rolls her eyes. “I sell _guns_ ,” she says. “That beats cocktails.”

“Hey, I make a mean cocktail,” he defends.

Her eyes cast up at the ‘cocktail menu’, which gives the options: 

_gin and soda_

_whiskey and ice_

_bloody mary (served until 11am)_

“Shut it,” he says, before she says anything at all. “Like anyone’s going to come here for a Cosmopolitan.”

She raises her eyebrows, looking, just for a second, exactly like her mother. “I don’t know about that. You could make a killing with the PTA crowd.”

“Don’t even go there,” he says. His last interaction with such a crowd - when he was desperately trying to ensure Claire got her GED - didn’t go well. (He maintains that Shirley was fucking asking for an ass-kicking.) 

Cas tugs at Dean’s shirt to get his attention, right at the elbow, and Dean gives it. “Dean,” he says, urgently. “When was _Thelma & Louise_ released in cinemas?”

“1991,” says Dean, automatically. When Jo snorts, he says without looking, “Shove it, Harvelle.”

Cas nods, ignoring both that and Jo’s responding middle finger. “And _Sleeping with the Enemy_?”

“The Julia Roberts film? 1991, too. Why?”

Cas doesn’t answer, just circles back to Sam who’s already nodding and saying, “Yeah, so the answer is zero. Which means the next answer is thirteen, right?”

Dean leaves them to it. Something about Cas and Sam’s heads bent low over a piece of paper leaves him warm to his toes. He doesn’t think too hard about it - just goes back to ribbing Jo about whether her mom is having a Sex on the Beach with Bobby in Hawaii right now.

He’s happy. It’s nice to acknowledge, sometimes. 

The next round is US folklore, which he and Sammy fucking smash. A childhood on the road had one or two perks - namely, learning each state’s horror story. 

He’s so busy arguing with Sam about which state Bigfoot originated in that it takes him a second to realise Cas isn’t next to them. 

He looks over to see him serving a drink to a woman - a beautiful woman, actually. 

But he doesn’t get caught on her. She’s blonde, and he notices her curves by how she leans them over the wooden bar - but what really makes him pause is that she’s flirting. With Cas. 

And Cas is smiling back. She tugs at the sleeve of his navy henley, and Cas doesn’t flinch back. He keeps his arm right where it is, and lets out one of his stupid dork snorts at something she says.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam says, in a voice that maybe suggests it’s not the first time. He clicks his fingers, and Dean snaps back to the paper. His ears feel hot. 

“Write down Washington,” says Dean.

“Sure,” replies Sam, in a weird voice. “But, uh, we actually moved on from that question.”

“Oh.” Dean swallows. “What was the question? I wasn’t listening.”

“I’m getting that.” Dean refuses to meet his brother’s eyes. From the tone of his voice, it’s not going to be anything he likes. He pauses, and then says, “She’s gone now.”

Dean’s voice is wooden as he says, “Who is?”

Sam makes a derisive noise that Dean has the urge to punch out of him. He shakes himself, and his weird fucking mood. It’s just been a while since a patron flirted with him - he’s a bit unnerved, that’s all. The last time he brought a chick home was - well, he can’t remember, which is telling all by itself. 

Charlie asks when the Lake Champlain monster was first sighted, and Dean says “1609,” in a tight voice. Sam writes it down and doesn’t say anything else as Cas returns to their part of the bar.

Later, as they return to the apartment (they came in third place, and Sam was right about the Bigfoot question so Dean’s feeling more irritated than he’d like to admit), Dean asks, “Did you get her number?”

Cas pauses in stirring his peppermint tea. Dean notices there’s another mug beside it, probably with chamomile for Dean. He tilts his head. “Whose number?”

“The woman. The one with the rack and the - touching.” Dean’s just being an ass tonight, apparently.

Cas pulls a face. “I didn’t notice any ‘rack,’” he says, distastefully at the phrasing. Dean folds his arms rather than break. “But if you’re talking about the woman who was flirting with me - she was very nice, and she liked my wooden carving.” 

Something twists in Dean’s gut at that in particular. “Did you tell her you made it for your husband?” he asks before he can take it back. 

Cas stares at him. In the dim light, his eyes are very dark. “No,” he says, eventually. “But I told her I made it for you.”

Then he goes to his bedroom, leaving the second mug behind, and Dean is left to hate himself by the light of their flea market lamp.

-

He doesn’t stick around in the morning, and goes to meet Benny instead. He finds him at the farmer’s market, at his fresh fish stall. He’s accustomed to the stink by now, the one that permeates his clothes as Benny stands up to hug him tight. “Glad you came,” says Benny, as he pulls another fold-up chair out for Dan to sit at. 

“Me too,” says Dean. The fresh air by the docks helps him wake up, and shake the last of the few more whiskeys he’d had before bed. “Have you been busy?”

“Warming up to it,” says Benny. “The lunchtime rush will be the busiest. You up for bagging some mackerel?”

One of the fish seems to look up at him with accusing, dead eyes. Dean shrugs. “Sure.” 

Just one of the things Dean likes about Benny, unlike his other friends, is that there’s never an expectation to talk about _feelings_. They sit in mostly silence, occasionally offering comments about other stalls or what the summer weather will bring. 

“Cas wants to buy an allotment for next spring,” offers Dean, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t. He folds his arms, and slouches in the chair. 

Benny clears his throat. “Are you going to get one, then?”

Dean could kiss him. Really, he could. “Probably,” he says. “If only so he stops bringing home houseplants. The lil’ dude belongs in a forest, really.”

Benny snorts. 

“What?”

“Little.” Benny cocks a brow in his direction. “Not sure there’s that much distance between you two, brother.”

“There’s a few inches, alright?”

Benny slowly and pointedly looks at Dean's boots, clunky and with an inch or two of sole. 

Dean slouches further, keeping his feet pressed against the paving. “Shut up.”

Benny looks off into the horizon, and says, as sly as anything, “Those few inches important in a husband? I’m just wondering.”

“Right,” says Dean, and stands up. “I’m going for a walk.” 

Benny laughs him off. 

Dean wanders through the market, stretching out his legs and taking in the sights and smells. 

He finds the nursery owner with a succulent stall, and she asks him how Cas’s latest installment is. He begrudgingly tells her that it’s thriving under Cas’ care, as most plants do. She claps her hands together in delight, and says, “He has such green fingers, you know. You’re a lucky man.” And Dean goes very red and has to make his excuses to leave, before he can buy the aloe vera he was thinking about bringing home. 

He finds a stall selling exotic blends of tea, with flavours from birthday cake to saffron to fresh lavender. He picks up a peppermint and lemon mix, and the artisan tea strainer for it, and carries them away in a recyclable paper bag. 

He comes across a jeweller’s, a middle-aged woman selling various necklaces and bracelets and shiny things. He comes closer with thoughts of Jo’s birthday coming up - she’s a tough girl, but sometimes he thinks she deserves more delicate things in her life - and then he catches sight of the ring display. 

There’s a few that are clearly made for women, for special occasions and engagements and promises. They have big jewels and small diamonds and swirling rose gold. But there’s one pair that catches his eye for their simplicity. He tries to look away, to refocus, but his eyes keep coming back. 

At the courthouse, they didn’t share rings. It wasn’t required. And - if Dean had thought about it, which he hasn’t, it would have been too ostentatious for what they were going for. 

But now, he’s staring at those rings. They’re both silver bands, plain with no further adornment. 

Eventually, the stall owner says tentatively, “Can I help?”

Dean does a full-body flinch. She must recognise his panic, glaringly obvious, as she deliberately softens her face, and says, “You know, we have a two-month return policy. If maybe you want to take them home to think about. It’s a big decision, if you’re thinking of those for a specific reason.”

Dean lets out a weak laugh. “I, uh- I’m actually already married to him,” he confesses. He allows himself this moment of honesty. “That should be a scarier step, right? Then just putting a ring on it.”

“Sometimes,” she allows. “But everyone has a unique journey in love.”

“Oh,” corrects Dean quickly. “We don’t love each other. Not like that.”

She blanches at that. “Ah,” she says. “Unique indeed, then.”

And Dean has to laugh at that. 

He gets the rings. He tests one on himself, and it fits well. She tells him the other ring is slightly bigger. He tells her that’s great, since Cas’s fingers are a bit thicker than his own, and then he has to walk off his ensuing blush from knowing that. 

By the time he gets back to Benny, he has a bag of artisan tea and two ring boxes in his jacket. As he sits back down, he thinks that Benny will somehow know what he’s hiding. When Benny asks, “What did you buy, then?” Dean startles before remembering the tea. 

“Uh,” says Dean, and he holds open the bag for Benny to see inside and smell the aromas. “Apology tea.”

Benny raises his brow. “Apology for what?”

Dean twists his lip. “I was being an asshole last night.” At Benny’s knowing look, he adds defensively, “More than usual, okay?”

“And tea’s gonna to be enough to make up for it?”

Dean stares at the bag. The rings beat a guilty brand against his ribs. “I hope so,” he says. 

\- 

Cas loves the tea, thankfully, enough that he doesn’t even make Dean explain why he bought them. He makes them each a cup, and delights at the fiddle of the strainer, and makes Dean sit with him to enjoy it quietly. 

(Dean has to admit - it is lovely.)

So, Dean is forgiven. Because Cas is good at forgiving him, to be honest. Dean’s the one more guilty of holding a grudge these days, and even then, he doesn’t have much energy for it anymore. 

Meanwhile, the days pass, and Dean doesn’t mention the rings. 

He keeps debating how to bring it up. Several times, he curses at them in his bedside drawer and decides he’s going to ship them back to that stall owner - but he never does. He just - fuck, he doesn’t want to have a conversation about this. Cowardly, as ever, but he doesn’t think he’d survive it. 

One night, they’re watching some old western Dean insisted on and hasn’t been concentrating on since. Cas is curled up in the couch, half-asleep and bent towards Dean. And Dean doesn’t think much of it, to pull Cas close and let him rest his head on his shoulder. A few moments later, Dean feels more than hears the puff of Cas’s gentle snores against his clavicle. His hand squeezes, just a little, around the meat of Cas’s shoulder. 

The ring - Cas’s, at least - is in his pocket. He’s gotten into the terrible habit of carrying it around, in case ‘the right moment’ arises. (It never has.)

He fishes it out, from the side Cas isn’t curled up against, and flicks it open with one push of his thumb. The silver glistens in the television’s reflection, colours swimming across the curved metal. He puts the box on his lap and pulls the ring free of its padded home.

Before he can think it through, he slides it onto the finger it belongs on. It fits, snug and perfect, against the meat between Cas’ knuckles. 

He whispers, “I think I was supposed to get you gold. Or - or there was tungsten, but that didn’t sound very - I don’t know.” He swallows, and the night carries the burden of his confession, and he continues, “Silver is supposed to defend against monsters. That’s what I heard, growing up. Against vampires and werewolves and ghosts. So, you’re getting silver, buddy. Gold ain’t good to fight with.”

Cas snuffles against Dean’s shoulder, and Dean smiles. 

For a moment, he allows himself this, in the privacy of the moment. He’s happy. He presses a kiss against Cas’ scalp, and watches the movie. 

When the movie ends, he’s half-caught between sleep and not, and Dean just shuffles him to bed before he can notice the new weight on his finger. 

In the privacy of his own bedroom, Dean pulls his own, matching ring, from his bedside table, and slides it on. It feels more comfortable than he’d expected - warm from its box home. He goes to sleep on his back, with his left hand splayed across his chest. 

-

Dean knows only odd things about Cas. 

He doesn’t know what country Cas is actually from - he thinks it’s Russia, but Cas, for whatever reason, doesn’t like to talk about it. He knows his name was Castiel Milton (Castiel Winchester, now), but he doesn’t know what kind of parents name their kid after the saint of Thursdays. He doesn’t know how old, exactly, Cas is, but he says his birthday is September 19th, so that’s what they’ve been celebrating for ten years now. 

Dean knows, though, that Cas likes to read non-fiction - he sits there on days off with a thick book of translations or human oddities over history. He reads about empires that fell and rose again, or how people used to criminalise sex, or how cells are replicated over and over again. 

Dean knows that Cas has nightmares, just like Dean but different. He knows the sound of muffled cries through their adjoined bedroom walls, and he knows that when he goes to knock on the door, Cas will open it and then immediately fall into the hug Dean offers. 

Dean knows that Cas enjoys the simple things in life, and the routine of them. He likes watering their many plants, rather than installing those automatic bulb things Dean once bought as a gift. He likes putting the dishes away one by one, and focusing on the pull of a pint glass, and counting the ice cubes to put in a whiskey soda. 

Dean knows that Cas can be cranky as hell, depending on how you catch him and the time of day. He’s a real dick when he’s tired, and Dean is guilty of winding him up deliberately and often, because Dean is also a real dick but all of the time. 

And now, Dean knows that Cas will wear a ring that Dean gives him. 

-

He catches sight of it the next day, and his world shifts to the side a little bit. He’s wearing his own, of course, and doubts he’ll ever take it off. It’s midday, so they’ve only stragglers and mid-journey truckers in the bar. The type of customer who doesn’t know what Dean looks like without a wedding band, so doesn’t know to find its appearance strange. 

Cas appears behind Dean at the bar, suddenly, holding a crate of clean glasses. He begins putting them away without fanfare. Dean is forced to watch Cas’ left hand, now decorated with Dean’s _something_ , move up and down to slide the glasses away, like a mockery. 

Dean overflows the pint glass he’s filling by staring, and hurriedly lets go of the lever when his fingers soak in the froth. He passes the beer over to the waiting man.

There’s something strange in his chest, tight and nervous and jumping. Like leftover adrenaline from a fight or falling in a dream. He shakes off his hand and is about to - whatever, storm outside and keep walking until his nerves calm down - when Claire walks through the front door. “Hey, boomer,” she greets, swinging around the corner of the bar. 

“Shut up, squirt,” replies Dean, automatically. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I have a date,” she replies, waggling her eyebrows. 

Dean pauses. “And you’re bringing her to your work?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like there’s a load of places to get a drink round here, and my car is at the shop for another week.”

This just gets better and better. “You took your car to a _mechanic’s_?”

“Dean,” she says. “Yes. I took my malfunctioning car to a professional who fixes cars.”

“That schmuck down the road?” Dean gapes. “He does _not_ fix cars. No wonder it’s going to take a week! What did he say was wrong with it?”

She shrugs. “I didn’t ask. The engine was making a funny noise.”

“What _kind_ of funny noise? Like a whining, or clunking, or-”

“Cas, can you control him?” She leans around Dean to call for him. Dean snaps his fingers to get her attention again, and opens his mouth for a _lecture_ , about car maintenance, and he _told_ her to let him check the engine, and-

“Dean,” says Cas, coming up close behind him to speak by the left of his shoulder. “Claire is a grown woman who can make her own decisions about her own car.”

“What, and I’m not allowed to tell her it’s the wrong one?”

“No,” says Cas, simply. He says, to Claire, “Did I tell you you’re getting a raise? We had good earnings last quarter, so your base pay is going up by a few dollars.”

“Thanks!” Claire says, brightness flickering across her face before she schools it to its usual rest. “I guess I’ll be using that money to pay for my new engine. I hope Ronnie adds some shiny, new, _unnecessary_ parts.”

Dean lets out a groan. “I have the power to fire you, you know.”

“Sure,” she says. 

“You know,” says Cas, in the voice that means whatever he’s going to say is going to annoy Dean a lot. “If you want, you could borrow my car to go for a date in the next town over.”

Dean stays quiet, by force of pressing his lips together tight. 

Claire nods. “That’s a good idea. Chicks dig the Continental.”

Dean knows he’s being played. He knows it. Like a fucking fiddle. And yet - “Okay, no. You’re not taking that beige monster on a _date_ , Claire, are you crazy? Take Baby.”

Claire, for her part, pretends to be shocked. “Are you _sure_ , boss? The Impala? Maybe she would prefer Connie…”

“I know you two fuckers planned this,” says Dean, even as he fishes into his front pocket and pulls out the keys. “Bring her back in one piece. If she starts making funny noises-”

“I’ll take her to the shop, sure.” Even as he splutters, she snatches the keys from his grasp, and winks. Her dark liner is painted across her eyelid. “You’re so generous. See you guys later!”

Dean shakes his head as she leaves. It takes him a moment after she’s gone to realise Cas hasn’t moved from the inch behind him, and that wild energy rises back up. 

Cas puts a hand on Dean’s back, right on the shoulder blade, and Dean jumps, spins around so fast his shoulder knocks against Cas’s outstretched hand. They both stare at it, until Cas lets it fall back to his side. 

Cas tilts his head, in that way that makes Dean feel too - _seen_. He scruffs a hand at the back of his neck, and says, before Cas can say something, “I’m going to make a quick run to the store. Do you want anything?”

“No,” says Cas. He squints, just a little bit. It’s endearing. “Are you alright?”

Dean nods, too quick to be believable. “Yeah, I-”

“Is this about the rings?” Dean’s sentence dies in his throat. Cas looks at his hand and continues. “I like them. I think you chose a beautiful design for both of us. And I noticed you’re wearing your own.”

It’s not quite an accusation, but it deserves to be one. 

Dean looks around, checks there’s no-one nearby, and he reaches, below the cover of the bar, for Cas’s hand. He loops their ring-heavy hands together. “I’m glad you like them,” he confesses, only to Cas. “I didn’t want you to think it was weird. When - I mean, we’re not really married. But - just in case.”

A muscle spun across Cas’s temple tightens, just infinitesimally, and he squeezes Dean’s fingers. “Well,” he says. “I like them. Thank you.”

Dean nods. “Cool.” 

They stand there for a moment more, and Dean’s just _staring_ , and then the corner of Cas’s mouth quirks up. “Weren’t you going to the store?”

Dean’s nodding becomes a little more frantic. “Yep. I am. Lots of, uh, urgent things for the bar.”

-

When he comes back with just a bag of ice and a gas station sandwich, Cas just looks at him with this impossibly fond, knowing look, and Dean wants to dunk his head in the bag of ice until his whole fucking head goes numb. 

-

The annual beach getaway was Sam’s idea, a couple of years ago. Benny owns a small beach house in the next town over - it’s the same damn coast, but somehow different enough to make it a whole ordeal. He lends it to them whenever they ask - sometimes he'll join them, and sometimes he won't. (It also depends whether he and Cas are getting along that month.)

The five of them - Dean, Cas, Sammy, Eileen and Charlie - pack into the Impala on Saturday morning and come back Sunday evening. Claire and Ash manage the bar by themselves, though every single time they make some small change that takes Dean a week to sniff out. Last year, Claire somehow changed the neon ‘booze’ sign to ‘boobz’, and Dean barely had the heart to change it back. 

Sam brings him a beer while he’s remembering that, slouching on the sand and watching the others play in the ocean. Eileen and Charlie are tossing a beach ball between them, and making Cas try (not very hard, from what he can see) to snatch it from them. 

Sam sits beside him, chinks his own bottle against Dean’s, and they sip in silence for a little while. 

Dean likes the calm. He likes the ocean, and the grit of warm sand between his toes, and the wind that hits harsh if they mistime the weather. He’ll never admit it to Sam - but he fucking loves their beach trips. 

“This is nice,” Sam says for him. “I’m glad we ended up by the beach.”

It still disarms Dean, sometimes, the way Sam phrases things. It makes the ugliness of their younger years rise up. Dean wants to snap back that no, Dean _chose_ the beach after Sam left for some landlocked college miles away. Dean chose the beach and sent Sam postcards to remind him where he was. Dean chose the beach, and Sam only came back after Dad died drunk in a Texan motel. 

But that’s not the whole picture, just a sharp snapshot fuelled by old issues. Now, Dean can relax back into the sand, swig from his beer, and say, “Yeah, me too.” 

“Do you remember-” says Sam, and then doesn’t finish.

Dean nudges him with his shoulder. 

Sam lets out an exhale, and then says, “Do you remember one time, Dad took us through Florida, and I asked if we could stop by the beach?”

Dean looks out at the ocean. “God. Yeah, you were what, ten?” 

“Probably. You were fourteen. Acne all over your face and fucking annoying,” Sam grins into his beer as Dean puts up the obligatory, ‘hey!’ defence. “But whatever, Dad said yes to the idea but then never delivered.”

Dean rolls his neck. “He tried his best, Sammy-”

Sam waves it off. They won’t agree on this - not today, and not without therapy they’ll never go to. “Not my point. When he went out that night, you smuggled us out, and took us down. I was trying to remember which beach it was, but-”

“It was St. Pete,” says Dean, filling in the blank. “We sat on the pier for hours.” He remembers how angry Dad had been when they finally had gotten back. That was before cell phones, and they hadn’t even bothered to leave a note. Sam was too angry at Dad's broken promise to, and Dean was hoping they would be back before a note would be necessary. 

“Right,” says Sam. “Anyway, I went back to Florida for spring break one year, at college, with some friends. Jess’s idea, probably.”

Dean doesn’t get the point of the story. Usually, any childhood memories they share are brief before they get tense. A quick ‘at least someone else knows my particular brand of fucked up’ and then move on to lighter things. This is different territory. 

Dean clears his throat. “Did you have a good time?”

Sam looks surprised. “Uh, yeah. I did. Drank too much fruity cocktails, though. My vomit was bright blue.”

“Gross, Sammy.”

“Whatever. I don’t think I went back to the same beach, then, if it was St. Pete back then.”

Dean shrugs. “I’m sure they were similar enough.”

“My point is - I’m glad we found the beach.” Sam draws his knees up and holds his beer lax between them. “Then and now.” 

Dean watches the others play in the ocean. Charlie’s hair is plastered against her face from salt water, and Eileen keeps trying to dunk Cas into the sea, and he keeps letting her. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Me too.” 

Sam eventually goes in to join them, and so it becomes a chicken fight where Eileen sits on Sam’s shoulders and Charlie on Cas’s. Eventually, Eileen, through pure viciousness, declares herself the winner when Charlie goes falling back into the ocean for the third time. 

Dean keeps meaning to go join them. His beer is almost finished, the dregs warm from the sun. He’s wearing swimming trunks and a Blue Oyster Cult t-shirt, and his toes wriggle into the sand until they’re covered. 

Cas, having suffered defeat, emerges from the ocean and walks towards him, and Dean gets a little - stuck on the sight. 

His chest is broad, and tanned, and fucking _glistening_. His arms are big, and swing with his gait. His shorts are clinging to his thighs and around his- and- Dean takes a swig of his beer, forgets its warmth and chokes a little on it. By the time he’s recovered, Cas is sitting beside him, and Dean stares at the horizon to try and calm down. 

“Are you alright?”

For a second, Dean thinks that Cas _knows_ he’s being weird, but then realises it’s more of a general question. “Yeah, I’m good,” says Dean, almost believably. “I just wanted to stay dry for a little longer.”

Cas responds to that by shaking his hair like a dog, spraying Dean with droplets of ocean and making him laugh out loud. 

“Hey!” Dean bats him away.

Cas smiles at him, a small, private thing. “I’m just drying off,” he says, with an innocent expression only belied by the spark of his eyes. 

He looks - gorgeous, actually, but Dean doesn’t know how to say that without being weird. He settles for knocking his shoulder against Cas’s and ignoring the damp that seeps into his t-shirt from the contact. 

-

They end up sharing one of the guest room double beds after too many frozen margaritas and tequila shots and Charlie claims the sofa for herself. It feels like nothing to share a bed, pass out inches from each other - but then Dean wakes up before Cas in the morning, and stalls on his way to the bathroom. He gets caught by the curl of Cas’s hair on the pillow and a crease across his cheekbones and the slack of his crows’ feet. 

He shakes himself - the beach makes him _weird_. 

-

They arrive back at the bar in time for the Sunday evening rush, and settle back into their work with salt-dry hair and more freckles than they left with. 

Dean’s in a good mood, content with his life and not too hungover from the night before. As he works, his eyes keep catching on the wooden bee carving, and it makes him smile each time. 

He’s wiping down one of the booths when he hears - senses - tension from the bar. He picks up the rag and the spray-bottle of disinfectant and wanders over. Cas is talking to some guy who’s way too drunk for a Sunday, and belligerent from it. 

For the most part, drunks love Cas. He’s friendly, and always happy to have an inane conversation or listen to drunken imaginings, and he always knows how to water them down gently. But for some reason, his usual charm isn’t working. He’s saying something Dean can’t hear over the stereo, and then the drunkard is reaching forward to grab at Cas’ shirt. 

“Hey, hey!” Dean is there before he realises, rag discarded in favour of yanking the man backwards and smacking at the offending hand. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Cool it, man.”

The guy is well-dressed, about the same height as Dean, and wiry. He sizes Dean up, and sneers, “It’s my car. _My_ keys.”

Dean raises his brows. “You really think you’re in a fit state to drive right now? Cas here is helping you out. It’s us, the police, or a reaper.” 

The guy snarls out, “I know my _fucking_ limits.” 

“I bet,” says Dean, ignoring the spittle that lands on his cheek. “Tell you what - why don’t you have a lemonade and some water, and then we can revisit things?” He gestures behind his back, in a motion Cas hopefully translates to, _call Sheriff Mills_. 

And god bless him, it must, because Cas says, “I already did. She’s on her way.”

“What’s your name, buddy?” Dean says, and he claps a hand on the guy’s shoulder. 

“Dick,” says Dick, apparently. Fitting.

“Okay, Dick,” says Dean. “Come on, let’s go sit down.” The man staggers, and Dean has to catch his weight a little bit, wrapping his hand around Dick’s arm. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Cas slip under the bar flap door to come around Dick’s other side, to help. So, he’s distracted when Dick tries to swing for him. 

He manages to duck under the shoddy punch, surprised more than anything, and his grip on Dick goes lax. But then Dick is being pulled away by his collar and thrown to the side, crashing into a nearby table that scrapes back with the weight. 

Cas stands there, looming and dangerous in a way Dean often forgets he can be. He sees the man who loves bees and plants and friendships - and forgets the strength coiled within. Dean, for his part, is frozen, staring at the line of Castiel’s shoulders. 

“If you try to touch him again,” says Cas, low and dark. “I will make sure you no longer have hands.”

Dick’s lip curls, and he makes to push himself straight, but Cas is there, pressing his chest back down, against the table. 

“You are going to stay down, and wait out the night in a jail cell,” continues Cas, in that same tone of voice. “You will get your car keys in the morning.”

Dick looks like he’s gearing up for a retort, but then the doors open and Jody, bless her heart, comes walking through, with Donna as her back-up. “Alright, boys?” she calls, striding forward. “I take it this is our troublemaker?”

“He tried to hit Dean,” says Cas, in a voice a stranger might call mild-mannered. Dean knows otherwise. 

Jody looks at Dean. “You want to press charges?”

Dean shakes his head. “He’s drunk.”

Cas makes a disgruntled sound. “That’s not an excuse.”

Dean waves a hand. “It’s fine. I’m fine - it’s not worth it.” 

Donna handcuffs the man and leads him outside. Jody says to Dean, “Well, if you change your mind, we’ll cool him off in the tank. You have my number.” And she leaves, taking Dick and Donna with her. 

The rest of the bar is quiet, watching them, and Dean shakes his shoulders out, moving to right the skidded table. Chatter resumes, just in time to lull underneath a change on the jukebox. 

“Dean,” says Cas, managing to inflict a whole sentence within the syllable. 

He turns to face Cas, and half-sits-leans on the table he just righted. He crosses his feet at the ankle and folds his arms. “Cas,” he teases. When Cas continues to look at him with those big eyes, he tsks, and says, “Come on, this happens every now and then. Especially with our type of clientele. He’ll cool off and be embarrassed in the morning.” 

“He should be taught a lesson,” disagrees Cas. 

“And he has been,” Dean replies. “He was just shown up by a guy who cries at puppy training videos.”

“Those dogs are trying their best - it’s commendable. And their vests are always too big for them.” Cas’s eyes narrow. “You said you wouldn’t bring that up again.”

“I also said I didn’t tell Sam about it,” Dean says, and stands to clap Cas on the shoulder as he passes. “Didn’t you wonder why he got you a Guide Dogs for the Blind donation for your birthday?” 

-

Somehow, despite Dean’s protest, the party Sam and Eileen host two weeks later gets named as the ‘Dean-Cas Belated Wedding Reception’. 

“We should be celebrating your citizenship, if anything,” mutters Dean darkly as they walk up the Leahy-Winchester garden path to the front door. “This is just a stupid way for them to make fun of us.”

Cas shrugs, and rings the doorbell. “Isn’t that all one and the same? Anyway - I don’t really care about being a citizen.”

Dean’s mouth falls open, and he splutters for a moment before saying, “What do you mean you don’t care? Why the hell did I marry you, then?”

Cas tilts his head, and points out, “It was literally your idea, Dean.” 

Dean is prevented from grabbing Cas’s shirt until he explains what the fuck he means by that by the door swinging open. A bunch of their closest friends yell, “Congratulations!” and shower them with rice. 

They stand there. 

Dean spits out a clump of uncooked rice that fell into his gobsmacked mouth.

“What the fuck,” he says.

“It’s tradition,” Eileen says, primly. “Now come on inside! Time to celebrate.” And she grabs onto Cas’s wrist to yank him inside before Dean can protest. 

“She’s having too much fun with this,” Dean complains to Sam as he walks inside, and the guests all spread out of the hallway. He shrugs off his jacket, hands the six-pack of beer to his brother as he hangs it up. 

Sam just grins. “Wait until you see the decorations.”

Actually, Dean could have lived his whole life without seeing the decorations. When he catches sight of them, as soon as he steps into the living room, he promptly wants to go home. 

Around the walls are embarrassing photos of Dean, Cas, and Dean and Cas together. There’s childhood photos of Dean with gap teeth and then braces and then nineties bangs. There’s a photo of Cas wearing a tiara and fairy wings, and a photo of him drenched from a beer keg that exploded, and a photo of him in a trench coat that drowns him. Then there’s photos of the two of them together: when they first moved into their apartment; the first day they opened the Roadhouse under new management; and a photo Dean has never seen before where they both fell asleep on the beach and they’re just resting on each other, snoring. 

There are paper garlands hanging from the ceiling, with cut out hearts and wedding bells. There are gold and white balloons tied up and drifting, and there’s an honest-to-god, three-tiered, white wedding cake on the dining room table. 

Sam claps a hand on his back, right between his shoulders, slapping away any breath Dean had left. “She did a good job, huh?”

“You married a monster,” says Dean, a little hoarse.

“Yep,” agrees Sam, sounding pleased about the fact. 

Dean mostly just tries to keep his head down and avoid Eileen or Cas as much as possible. (The one time he stands near Cas, Eileen appears with party poppers to shower on them and Dean almost murders his sister-in-law.)

Eventually, he breaks and goes outside to get some air. He stumbles onto Sam’s back porch, his boots clumping against the wood. He leans against the wooden balustrade, looks out onto the backyard and the night sky.

He only gets a few minutes of peace before he hears the backdoor swing open. He groans, lets his chin hang to his chest. “I’m _fine-_ ”

“I actually don’t care either way,” comes the reply, accompanied by the clip of heels on wood. He looks over his shoulder to see Rowena, bright-haired and smirking in red lipstick, coming to stand beside him. She pulls her clutch bag from under her armpit and opens it up to pull out a pack of cigarettes.

He lets out a sigh and holds out his hand.

“You smoke now?” she asks dubiously.

“No,” he says, and bobs his hand pointedly. “Give me one.” 

“So dramatic,” but she still shuffles one out of the box and lights it for him. 

He takes a drag, fights the cough, and lets the smoke float out from between his lips.

“So,” she says, in her dumb accent. “I take it the festivities weren’t your idea?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “No, that would be down to Eileen and the other jokesters.”

“You have friends with a certain sense of humour.”

“They’re a nightmare,” he says with a gruff voice. 

“You don’t mean that,” she says, calling him out easily. “They love you. I presume you love them too.”

He takes another drag of the smoke rather than answer. 

Rowena continues, “I was speaking to Charlie, inside. She’s really something.”

Dean nods, and says wisely, “Redheads group together.”

She pinches him and makes him yelp. “Not _just_ that, you minx. We sometimes go to the same LARP-ing events.”

Dean glances at her from the side of his eyes. “You-?”

“I make a very good witch,” she sniffs. He believes it. “We have a lot of things in common. We actually dated the same woman, once. Both learned from that particular lesson, too.” She wiggles her eyebrows, but he’s too busy frowning. 

“You’re a lesbian?” he says, inelegantly. “But - you hooked up with Sam. You dated, like, three men at once last summer.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Dear, don’t be obnoxious. It makes you look far less pretty. I’m bi.” At his blank look, she clarifies, “Bisexual.”

“Is that another LARP-ing thing?”

“What are you talking about?” She turns to look at him - whatever she reads on her face makes her expression go loose in shock. She stubs out her smoke and turns to face him fully. “Sweetheart. Please tell me you’re doing your deliberately clueless thing.”

His ears are going hot. “I don’t- I wouldn’t say it’s _clueless-_ ”

“Oh, saints.” She reaches to cup his chin between her thumb and finger - he goes cross-eyed looking down at her crimson nail. “There is a whole spectrum between gay and straight. You must know this.”

“Sure,” he mumbles, a little awkward with his jaw still caught in her grasp. “There’s, uh. Drag queens.”

For a moment, Rowena looks like she wants to throttle him. She breathes out harsh through her nose, and says, “I have not had to educate a forty-year-old man about sexuality in _years_ , Dean Winchester. It is only because I am fond of your brother that I’m doing this.”

“I didn’t _ask-_ ”

“To be bisexual,” she barrels ahead. “Or ‘bi’, depending on your phrasing, is to be attracted to all genders, whether the same as your own or not. You may have a leaning towards one more than others, and if you’re monogamous, you will pick one at a time. But the important thing is that the possibility is there.”

Something sticks in the back of Dean’s mind, a cog that stutters on the same turn. “That’s a thing?” It sounds more derisive than he means, and he hurries to add, “I mean, that’s- that exists?”

She nods. “Yes.”

He knows he’s not making much sense. He’s supposed to be cool about this, he knows. Accepting. He wasn’t like this when Kevin came out as trans, or Charlie told him she was gay. It’s just – shit. The idea pings around in his brain like a tennis ball.

He squints. “Is it – a common thing?”

She shrugs. “Depends on who you ask. Certainly, I’m in the minority of your friendship group – though I suspect some are just quiet about it – but if we went to Pride, I’d have plenty of siblings.” She frowns. “I really can’t believe you were unaware. Darling, you’re married to a man.”

He waves that whole point away and rubs a hand over his jaw. “Huh,” he says. “You learn something new every day.”  
  
“Yes,” she says, and it’s suspicious. When he doesn’t say anything else, she says, “Well, I’m going back inside. When you want to know about gender, pick someone else to teach you.”

He deigns not to rise to that and instead focuses on finishing the gifted cigarette as she clops back into the house.

Bisexual. Huh. He tests the word out, rolls it around on his tongue.

Huh.

-

He raps, loud and fast, on Charlie’s apartment door the next day until she answers.

“What?” she exclaims, hair messy and leftover eyeliner smudged under her eyes. “What the fuck, dude? It’s a Saturday!”

“Bradbury,” he greets, pushing past her to pace within her room. He’s holding three library books that he drops down on her coffee table, narrowly missing a glass of water. “I have something to share.”

She rubs at her hangover-pink nose. “At ten in the morning?”

“I’ve been doing some reading,” he announces as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Reading’, of course, being a catch-all for being lost in his own thoughts on the drive home from the party, spending all night on his laptop, and getting up early to race to the library with a print-out of recommended titles. “And I think – I mean I _know-_ ”

Charlie finally reads the spines of his dumped books. “ _Coming Out Every Which Way_ ,” she reads aloud from one, and then, “ _The Bisexual’s Guide to the Universe_.”

Understanding begins to dawn across her face.

If he doesn’t say it now, he never will. He spreads his arms wide, and says, “I’m bisexual.”

Her eyes widen. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. He didn’t sleep much last night – he’s a little hyper. “I mean – maybe I should take some time to think about it. But it just – it feels – it makes _sense_.” That last past comes out a little plaintive.

“Then you are,” Charlie says, soft. Then she seems to remember herself, and says, “Shit! I’m supposed to be, like, acknowledging you. Um, you are valid. And this doesn’t change that I love and respect you.”

“Thank you,” he says. He didn’t realise he wanted to hear that until her words settle under his skin and rest there, warming him from the inside. “I mean – it all makes sense. Indiana Jones! Fred from _Scooby Doo_ – but also, Daphne! _Cowboys_ , Charlie. Dr McSexy!”

“A lot of your TV choices do make more sense,” she says, thoughtfully. Then she replays some of his phrasing, and adds, “When you say you should take more time to think about it – exactly when did you come to this realisation?”

“Last night,” he admits. Something flickers over her face, and he adds, “But that’s because I only found out bisexuality existed last night.”

“Dean,” levels Charlie, unimpressed.

“I didn’t know!” he defends. 

Really, he didn’t. Who was going to teach him?

He only uses the internet for his Spotify account and to argue with Facebook about local county council politics. He knows gay people - Charlie, Claire, Corbett - but they’ve been _gay_ , and so sure of it. People on television have been gay or straight or they said they didn’t have labels (which, fine, but Dean could have used a label at least once, apparently). Cas always hangs different coloured flags around the bar during Pride month - but there’s so many. Dean couldn’t have known one of them could apply to _him_. 

So, what was left? Was John Winchester supposed to teach him about the Kinsey scale? Yeah, right. 

“Well,” says Charlie, neutrally. “I’m glad you know now, at least.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. All at once, he deflates and falls down onto her couch. He stares up at her ceiling. “I just didn’t _know_. That you could have, or like, both. All of the options. I always knew liked girls. They’re great. All pretty and hot and - I mean – you get it.”

Charlie makes a noise of agreement and comes to sit beside him.

“But – it’s not just guys on TV. There’s been- moments. People. Feelings that I couldn’t make sense of.” He stares down at his hands, the callouses and the lifelines and the scars. He swims in memories of stubble smiles and broad shoulders and stomach flutters. “I feel as if I’m looking at everything with new eyes.”

Charlie gently punches his shoulder. “That’s a good thing.” She pulls back her fist to rest her jaw on it. “I’m proud of you. You’ve worked fast through your gay panic – twelve hours must be some kind of record for the LGBT community.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Well,” he says. “I’ve spent forty-odd years not knowing. Guess I’m not wasting any time.”

She smiles, fond and pleased. “Am I the first person you told?” At his nod, she adds, “I’m very honoured. A little surprised, but.”

His brows crease. “Who else would I tell?”

She laughs. “Come on. Cas, obviously. Or,” she clicks her fingers into guns that point at him. “Are you waiting for the right moment to tell him?”

There’s innuendo in her voice that he can’t figure out on two hours of sleep and a sexuality crisis, so he ignores it. Instead, he realises, “Shit, yeah. I need to tell Cas.”

It suddenly feels very important.

“Uh huh,” says Charlie knowingly. She shoos at him. “Go on, then! What are you waiting for?”

He nods and gets to his feet. He’s nervous. Momentum and excitement carried him to Charlie. But now, just anxiety is left over.

But that’s stupid – this is Cas. The same Cas who hoists the rainbow flag high every Pride month and has a dog-eared copy of _Brokeback Mountain_ on his bedroom bookshelf. He won’t judge Dean.

And yet, nerves still bite at Dean’s stomach.

-

He drives the long way back to the Roadhouse, and practices his speech to Baby’s wheel. “It’s no big deal,” he tells her. “I’ll be casual about it. Like, hey, buddy. I’m-”

His phone rings, and he presses answer without thinking, and says, like a brain spasm, “Bi.”

He knows by the pause it’s Cas on the other line. “Hello, Dean.” Cas takes another moment, and says, “Were you finishing another call?”

“I meant hi. Not bye. Hi,” Dean says. He shakes himself, and rounds the corner, a couple of minutes from home. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to check you were okay,” says Cas. “It seemed like you didn’t sleep much last night. And then you left early this morning – I hope last night didn’t upset you.”

It takes Dean a second to remember what even happened last night, apart from his conversation with Rowena. The reminder of Eileen’s decorations makes him cringe. “I’m fine.”

Cas hums. 

Dean twists his lips as the car comes onto the Roadhouse parking lot. He thinks, again, that this is Cas. He patters his fingertips on the leather of the wheel and says, all in one breath, “I’m bisexual. I just figured it out. I was talking last night to – well, it doesn’t matter. The point is, I just figured it out. So, that’s why, uh. That’s why I’m being weird.”

Neither of them say anything for a long moment.

Dean’s eyes feel hot, and he parks the car, pulls on the handbrake. He clears his throat. “You still there?”

“Yes. Sorry, Dean, I was just- processing.” Cas’s voice sounds tight, and Dean’s stomach begins to drop low. But then Cas says, full of emotion and sincerity, “Thank you for telling me. I hope this revelation brings you great happiness and a better understanding of yourself.”

Dean rests his forehead against his knuckles, still wrapped around the steering wheel. He lets out a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too, buddy.”

-

Life goes on, just as before. Dean and Cas curl up in front of western movies and medical dramas and whatever documentary Cas has decided on, and nothing changes.

Dean, in the space of the following weeks, comes out to most people he knows, and then hopes they’ll spread it out amongst themselves to anyone he forgets.

Sam, predictably, is very emotional about the whole thing, and brings up their childhood, and fucking _John_ , who Dean wants as far from his sexuality as possible. But it’s not the worst, he guesses. Claire declares she already knew, and Benny claps him on the back and then goes back to beating his ass at snooker. Eileen hugs him very tight, and Dean is glad again to have a sister-in-law.

He spends some time thinking about past relationships. He wonders if Cassie or Lisa ever guessed – he can’t imagine so.

Mostly, he just feels a little stupid about figuring it out so late himself.

He admits that to Cas one night, when the David Attenborough documentary is narrating a story about some gay penguins or whatever and Cas’s feet are thrown into Dean’s lap like that’ll make him give in to foot rubs.

Cas takes a second to wonder about it. “Well, it’s not like you were brought up in an environment conducive to working that out.” He frowns. “You did go to college, though.”

“Part-time,” points out Dean. “I was working in the evenings, not experimenting.”

“Regardless,” says Cas, and digs his heel into Dean’s thigh, just a little. “You went at your own pace. I’m pleased you discovered it, no matter when that was.”

Dean lets out a breath. “Right.” He starts to rub Cas’s arch, grinning as Cas closes his eyes in pleasure. Like a spoilt cat, sometimes. “You didn’t go to college, did you?”

Cas shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t experiment.”

Dean freezes. Cas nudges his hand to make him resume, and then cracks an eye open when Dean doesn’t. Dean croaks, “What.”

Cas frowns. “I’ve liked all sorts of bodies and genders. I thought you knew that.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. He stares at the TV, not watching a single frame. “No, I did not.”

“Oh.” Cas takes a moment, and then says, “Does that change things?”

Shit. Dean squeezes Cas’ foot, and says, “No, shit. I’m messing things up. You just surprised me, is all.” He tries to remember what Charlie said. “Uh, I accept you. You are valid. And, shit.”

There’s a beat, and then Cas laughs. A rare sound, but Dean finds himself watching it, cracking out his own grin.

Cas slouches further into the couch, wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “That seemed like it hurt you.”

Dean digs his thumb into the ball of Cas’s foot. “Shut it.”

-

So, yeah. Life goes on.

-

He’s waiting for their evening take-out order (Cas insisted on buttermilk chicken and sweet potato fries, so Dean made the journey to the next town over to pick it up) when a familiar voice says,

“Winchester!”

He turns around just in time to receive the bro-hug and back-clap from- “Henriksen?”

Victor leans back and gives him a small grin. “Wow. It’s been years.”

“Is that goatee new?” Dean gives him his best shit-eating grin as he chucks him under the chin. “Suits you.”

The last time Dean saw Victor was when he was still working in social care – way back when. They saw each other on enough cases to be close colleagues and then work-friends, getting beers after a particular tough case or going over paperwork over take-out. The smell of burgers drifting through the restaurant now makes the memories especially visceral.

“So what are you doing this way?”

Victor shrugs, not enough to shift his smirk, and says, “Visiting family this way. Just getting food for-”

And then his phone trills from his pocket, a gentle ping notification. Not enough to even register as an interruption to Dean, but Victor fidgets with the guilt of someone caught, and pulls his phone out to silence it. Dean tilts his head, and says, “What’s got you looking so shifty?”

Victor lets out a bark of a laugh, and admits, “Fuck off. It’s that new dating app – I didn’t want you to rib me about it.”

“Too late,” says Dean. “What are you, looking for college girls? You’re too old to be on an app.”

“You’re just saying that because you wouldn’t know how to use it,” Victor fires back. “You bought an iPod or a new car yet?”

“Don’t knock Baby,” warns Dean. “And you know the classics sound better on cassette.”

Victor laughs. “Sure. Anyway, not all of us are settled down yet.” At Dean’s visible confusion, Victor points at the silver band wrapped around Dean’s ring finger. “You going to tell me about her?”

“Ah,” says Dean, and instinct forces his other hand to fidget around it, hiding the ring – stupidly and too late – from view. “It’s, uh. Not like that.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry.” Whatever assumptions Victor’s made, Dean lets him. “Hey, maybe you should get on the app, then. It helps your confidence, at least.”

And, because saying no would mean explaining _why_ , Dean lets Victor show him how to download the dating app onto his phone and set up a profile, gently ribbing him about his stupid answers to even stupider questions.

(“You know Led Zeppelin isn’t a personality trait, right?” And: “I would never have pegged you as an Aquarius, Winchester. Too bull-headed.” And “No, choose a photo without your blue-eyed buddy, you don’t want chicks asking which one's you and getting disappointed.”)

Victor’s food arrives first, and so Dean hugs him goodbye, makes him promise to stay in touch this time, and then sits with the app for a little longer. He has the option to swipe through potential matches, now, and he finds himself staring at the screen. With Victor gone, he changes his preferences to closer to his own age, and open to men and women and anything else.

He starts swiping. The first profile reminds him too much of Jo, so that’s a no, and the next one declares she’s a vegan, so no again. The next one is a guy, and that alone makes Dean pause. Since coming out to himself, he hasn’t – he didn’t think about actually _dating_ a guy. Just like he hasn’t thought about dating at all in the past few years.

But now, here the option is, smiling up at him from a cracked screen. (Dean doesn’t take care of his phones, and Cas has given up on trying to convince him to buy a protector.)

The option in question has a nice smile, with white teeth and stretched lips. He’s objectively attractive, with sun-bleached hair and deep brown eyes. In his profile, he declares he loves good beer and vintage music and beach trips. Dean’s thumb hovers above the ‘no’ option, a red X button.

“Winchester?”

And his thumb skitters across the screen and he drops his phone – luckily, the screen doesn’t crack further, and Cas isn’t here to make a ‘told you so’ expression – and he tucks it away into his jacket. He stands, collects and pays for his order, and ignores the way his ears burn from paranoia. He shuffles back to the Impala and takes a moment to rest his forehead on Baby’s steering wheel. She waits for him patiently.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out, expecting it to be a text expressing Cas’s impatience – instead, it’s a notification from that stupid app. He must have accidentally pressed the ‘yes’ option because it’s a message from beach boy saying, “hey handsome how’s your evening going?”

Dean stares at the message for a long time. He can see the appeal – he downloaded the app ten minutes ago and he already has a potential match waiting in his pocket.

But something feels very wrong. He doesn’t know this guy. Even after a date, or a few text messages, he wouldn’t know him, not really. It would take months of dates, and awkwardness, and revealing conversations. How would Dean explain how his mother burned to death, or why he owns a bar, or why he likes chamomile tea before he goes to bed?

How would he explain he has a husband waiting for him to get home? 

Dean deletes the app. He pulls out from the parking spot and calls Cas to say he’s on his way back. 

-

Dean is in the storeroom, cataloguing inventory (it’s not actually his turn, but Claire and Ash always find ways to beg out of stock-take, and Cas tends to get distracted by imagining new recipes or deciding they need a new IPA menu).

He hears some raised voices, and then he hears Cas, croaky bass underneath the jukebox guitar, and then he hears-

(When he’s drunk, months later, he’ll describe it as the worst sound he’s heard in his life.)

-this terrible _crack_ , crunching bone against unyielding wood.

He rushes through the storeroom swing doors, and sees, in all his drunkard, ugly glory, Dick, standing in front of Claire, who’s tiny but determined and yelling at him. Everyone’s yelling, actually, and he can't find the source, until.

Until Dean sees him, crumpled against the floor, unnaturally so.

 _Cas_. 

Dean _vaults_ over the bar. 

Cas is sitting, barely, and his eyes are unfocused and half-mast, and when Dean reaches to cup his head, he feels wet, warm, sticky blood, running from a gash at the back of his head.

It’s easy to work out what happened. Claire will confirm it later. Dick came back and came back drunk. Dick decided to square up to Cas, who emasculated him last time and managed to get lucky. Dick pushed Cas, who fell back against the corner of the bar, and split his fucking head open.

Dean fights the urge to be sick.

Dick is shouting something about it not being his fault, and Claire is shouting straight back, using curse words Dean hasn’t even _heard_ of.

Dean ignores them. He shrugs off his over-layer, green and brown plaid, and bundles it up to press it against Cas’ head wound. He says, low, “You’re okay.” And then he calls behind him, “Call an ambulance!”

Someone says they have already, a regular Dean can’t be fucked to remember the name of, “And the police, too!”

Dick’s yelling increases, in volume and desperation.

Dean says, louder than him, “Claire! Help me here.”

Claire crouches beside him, and takes over the shirt, and helps keep Cas upright. The movement jostles Cas, just a little, and shock flutters over his face before he leans over and pukes by Dean’s feet. Dean stands, leans behind the bar to pull out one of the plastic tubs they keep cucumber in, emptying its contents over the counter before holding it on Cas’s lap. He guides Cas’s hands to hold it, just in time as he curls over and vomits again.

A concussion, then.

Dean pats his thigh and then stands. Something deep in his gut twinges painfully as he lets go of Cas. But he knows this from first aid training, his social care experience – get rid of the threat before applying further care.

Dick bares his teeth and pushes Ash aside as Dean approaches him. “It wasn’t my fault,” Dick insists.

Dean nods, once. And then his fist slams, whip-fast, against Dick’s jaw.

Dick reels back, and Dean doesn’t stop, He grabs onto Dick’s collar to keep his aim steady, and keeps hitting, like his dad taught him, fast and angry and unrelenting. He punches until he hears the crack of bone, and Dick is wailing. He drops him, then, on the floor, and shakes out his hand. He thinks he broke a knuckle and there’s blood-spattered across his wedding ring.

He swallows and turns back to Cas. He crouches down beside him, and ignores the silence of the bar, and Dick’s shaking groans, and Claire’s expression. Cas has thrown up again, so Dean takes the near-full tub and leans over the bar to empty it. He puts it back in Cas’s lap, and says, “Cas? Can you hear me?”

Cas lets out a garbled sound, and then says, in a startlingly cold tone, “Fuck off.”

There’s the mood change. Three symptoms for three – fuck. Dean forces the panic down and takes over from Claire to hold the damp flannel against the cut, pressing it against the skin. Cas throws up again.

“Dean,” says Cas, but before he can finish, the doors slam open, and Jody and Donna are through, and there are paramedics close behind them.

Dean just jerks his chin at Dick, who Jody recognises anyway, and he doesn’t let go of Cas’s hand he doesn’t remember grabbing as the paramedics kneel down beside them.

-

He doesn’t remember much of the ride to the hospital.

He remembers demanding to come along in the ambulance – and when they asked if he was family, he said, “I’m his husband,” and that was that.

-

He sits in the waiting room with blood-smeared hands and a bouncing knee. He’s cold in just a t-shirt, with the air-con and the cloying scent of hospitals. He finds himself fiddling with his ring, twisting it back and forth until the skin underneath it shins like scar tissue.

Sam calls him, and Dean texts back to tell him not to come yet, promises to keep them updated. Sam reads the text and calls back again, and Dean ignores it, turns off his phone and shoves it into his pocket.

When they finally lead him to Cas’s bedside, he almost trips in the doorway at the sight. They tell him they had to do minor brain surgery – an oxymoron if he’s ever heard one – but now the bleeding in his brain has been cleared. They say he can stay by his bedside tonight, but warn him that, “Mr Winchester will need a while to sleep.”

There’s a bandage over his head, stuck on where they had to cut into his brain. His face is swollen, from the extra fluid, by his temples. His eyes are closed, and he looks pale in the hospital light. Dean nods through the doctor’s explanations until they leave, and Dean is left alone with Cas’s soft puffs of sleeping breath.

He sinks down into the bedside chair and pulls it as close as he dares. He reaches out, and – so carefully – takes hold of Cas’s hand. His ring glints as Dean pulls it high enough to press his lips in a not-quite-kiss against the back of his hand, where the veins are faint-blue and there’s a leftover scar from his days spent on the streets.

He says to Cas’s hand, “You had me really worried there.” He kisses the soft skin again, and his eyes blur. Finally, the tears fall, and he’s not surprised. His eyelashes clump between fast blinks, and he says, “’Til death do us part, buddy. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, you hear me?”

Cas doesn’t respond. Dean wasn’t really expecting him to.

-

He drifts. It’s still dark when he wakes to a waking snort, and then his head cracks up to see Cas, turning his head to watch him.

“What happened,” he says, gravel-sleep-thick, and his hand squeezes within Dean’s clammy grip.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean says. “Fuck. You’re awake. I’ll get the nurse.”

“Wait,” says Cas, even as Dean stands. “Are you okay?”

“ _Me_?” Dean balks. “You’re the one- Are you-?” He lets out an irritated grumble and leans down to quickly press a kiss on the side of Cas’s forehead that isn’t swollen and sore. “I’m fine,” he says, in a measured tone. “You’re the one with the head injury. I’m getting the nurse.”

“Okay,” says Cas, sleepily. It takes more effort than Dean thought it would to let go of Cas’ hand, but he does, and he goes to get the nurse.

-

Cas has to stay for another night for observation, and so Dean stays too. He leaves only to get vending-machine food and have a piss when he needs to. When the doctor gives Cas the all-clear to go home, Dean’s the one who lets out an audible sigh of relief, while Cas just looks quietly bemused.

Dean drives him home in Baby, with one hand on the steering wheel and one hand free to twitch towards Cas on every speed bump or pothole or sharper-than-he’d-like brake. If Cas notices, he’s too kind to say anything.

Back at the apartment, Dean shuffles Cas straight to his bed, and brings in a tray of ice-cold water, room temperature water, and chamomile tea. “You need to hydrate,” he defends, when Cas raises an eyebrow at the selection.

“I’m okay,” says Cas, but he still looks tired, and there’s a patch of hair the surgeon had to shave away to access his skull, so Dean vehemently disagrees with that assessment. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“I didn’t,” says Dean, without meaning to. “When it mattered.”

Cas frowns, tilts his head, and opens his mouth to say something – and Dean flees, promises to bring back a sandwich for him to eat.

He ends up bringing back three, and a toastie. Cas forces Dean to at least one of them, and so they sit next to each other on Cas’s bed, eating quietly.

Cas’ room is full of plants, and books, both of which Dean would expect. But he continues to be surprised by other additions. Small paintings bought from local artists, and another wood carving from his class (this time of a daisy flower). He has a vinyl player, next to which rest some records Dean and others have bought for him over the years, trying to expand his pop culture knowledge. He has a rug across the floor from Ikea, and his bedsheets are a deep, olive green.

Cas knocks his shoulder against Dean’s, and says, “You aren’t responsible for my injury. And from what I hear, you had plenty to say to who was responsible.”

Dean hunches a little, biting into his sandwich and saying, mouth full, “Who told you?”

Cas puts down his own plate, and reaches for Dean’s hand, running his thumb over the still-scraped knuckles. “Claire sent me a text. She passed her well-wishes and asked me whether you considered _Kill Bill_ an influence.”

Dean lets out a groan. “He deserved it. I’m not going to apologise.”

“I would never ask you to,” teases Cas. “I know how you feel about them.”

Dean elbows him and says, “Shut up. I can apologise.”

“Dean Winchester, I can count on one hand the times you’ve apologised to me.”

Dean frowns. “That’s not true. I apologise when I’m wrong.”

He chances a look sideways to see Cas is just tilted towards him, with that know-it-all expression that makes him look unfortunately endearing. “When you admit you’re wrong, which is different.”

Dean squints, and then clicks his fingers when he remembers, “I apologised for getting the beer order wrong last week!”

“No,” Cas corrects, sounding like he’s on the verge of laughter. “You said that you got the beer order wrong, and you’d fix it, but,” and now he curls quotation marks from his fingers, “’You didn’t want to hear a goddamn comment about it.’”

Sinking back on the bed, Dean looks up at the ceiling. “Shit,” he says.

“It’s okay,” Cas says, shifting onto his side so he can curl lower on the bed. He tucks his hand under the uninjured side of his head. “It makes it all the more meaningful when you do apologise.”

“Well, then,” says Dean, and he puts aside his own plate. He sits up so he can pull the folded bed sheets over them both, because he wants Cas to have a nap and he figures he can lead by example. He lies back down to lie on his side so he can still face Cas. “I’m sorry you got hurt.”

Cas pulls a face. “That’s not your fault. Doesn’t count.”

“Hm,” murmurs Dean, watching Cas’s drowsy eyelids close. He fights the fond smile threatening to emerge on his face. “Well, then, I’m sorry for telling you the vending machines were out of candy.”

His eyes don’t re-open as Cas reaches out to shove lazily at Dean’s shoulder. “I knew it.”

“You shouldn’t be eating chocolate after a head injury,” says Dean.

“So, you’re not sorry.”

“I’m sorry I lied to you about it,” replies Dean, punctuating it with a yawn. “Now, shush. I’ll get you all the candy you like when you’re better.”

“I like chocolate,” mumbles Cas, and then he’s out.

Dean watches him for a moment, just a single moment, where he lets himself count his breaths and watch the colour come back to his cheeks. His stubble is longer than he usually keeps it, dark enough to cast a deeper shadow over his jaw, and his hair looks soft from the lack of product. Dean, for that one moment, is tempted to brush an errant curl away.

But the moment passes, and he sinks beside him into sleep.

-

The next few days are a careful balance between how much Dean actually wants to smother Cas, and how much he can feasibly get away with.

He keeps Cas in the apartment as much as possible, and in bed or on the couch. He brings him books from the library and charity shop nearby – thrillers that Cas gets bored with, romances that Dean gets uncomfortable with, and history books on subjects Cas declares he already knows about. They watch TV together – Dean falls asleep during more than one documentary, and he orders whole boxsets of kids movies where the characters are all animals (Cas’s secret love). They watch _Tom & Jerry _reruns and go through all the _Scooby Doo_ content available – the movies and series and even the live-action films. (Cas still empathises with Scrappy and won’t let Dean make fun of him for it.)

He asks Jo to help run the bar with Ash and Claire, and he pays them all overtime. Claire wraps bubble-wrap around the offending corner that Cas hit into, as well as stapling an obnoxious warning label next to it. It’s a joke, except for how she watches Cas when she thinks no one’s looking. He’s the one who organised her foster home, got her this job, helped her with high school homework when she was twenty-one, after all. But Dean pretends he doesn’t see the worried glances, and in return, she pretends she’s not worried. (She gives Cas a hug anyway, in the back room where no one can see them.)

He also won’t let Cas return to work, which is an ultimatum that leads to possibly their worst argument ever, if not in at least five years.

“I’m _fine_!” Cas snaps, jaw hard and mutinous.

“Yes, because you’re resting!” Dean barks. “Ergo, you should continue to rest!”

“You’d keep me in bed for the rest of my life if I let you.”

Dean forces the mental image of _that_ from his brain to retort, “You are still healing. Cas, don’t be a moron.”

Cas’s eyes go narrow. “I can assure you,” he says venomously. “You are the one being moronic. And bullish. _And-_ ”

“You can call me all the names you like,” says Dean, resting his weight on the kitchen island between them, knuckles tightened against the wood. “It doesn’t change a thing. You’re not working a shift until I say so.”

“Until you _say so_?”

“It’s my bar!”

Cas flinches back as if Dean had hit him. Dean’s anger leaves him in one rush, and regret takes its place.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says, quickly. “Cas, I didn’t.”

“You said it.” Cas’s expression is cold.

Dean swallows. He nods. “I did. But I didn’t mean it. It’s your bar as much as it is mine. I know that. I’m just- You have no idea-” he falters, and rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, _Cas_ , you worried me. You really scared me. Can you just indulge me a little longer? Please?”

He stares at the kitchen island as he waits for Cas to say something. He’s so busy focusing that he jumps when Cas’s hand reaches to rest over his own, and his other is feather-light on the small of Dean’s back.

“I’m sorry,” says Cas.

Dean shakes his head. “No, I’m the one who should be apologising. I would never – this is yours. All of this.” When he gestures, he hopes Cas understands it’s not just the apartment, or the bar below, but everything else they’ve built here. Cas’s hand curls in his shirt, and tags, and Dean follows, thumping his head onto Cas’s shoulder and half-returning the hold.

“I’ll take it easy a little longer,” says Cas. “But you need to stop smothering me. I feel fine.”

“No promises,” says Dean, already imagining how he can get Cas to stay on the couch for another couple of weeks. Cas’s arm tightens around him, like he can tell exactly what he’s thinking.

-

About a week later, he turns up outside Sam’s door, knocking until his brother answers. Sam frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not allowed to visit my little brother now?”

“No, I just-”

Eileen’s voice calls from behind him, “Is that my favourite Winchester?”

Dean grins, and claps Sam on the shoulder as he steps past him to enter. As soon as he sees Eileen, she rushes over to grab him into a tight hug. As soon as she pulls back, she signs quickly, “How’s Cas?”

Dean nods. “He’s a lot better. The swelling’s down, and he’s hasn’t shown any signs of complications. His follow-up is next week, but I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Good,” she replies, making the sign for relief with her whole torso. “He scared us all.”

“You’re telling me,” says Dean. “So, what are you two up to?”

Eileen shares a look with her husband that Dean does not miss, but equally does not know how to interpret. She says, “I was just going to my yoga class, actually. But Sam’s around – especially if you want to help him put up the bookshelf.”

Dean rubs his hands together. “They call me DIY Dean for a reason.”

“No one calls you that,” says Sam flatly, and Dean sticks a tongue out at him.

“Behave, both of you,” Eileen warns, before grabbing her keys and making a quick exit.

The bookshelf turns out to be in their living room, because, as Sam sheepishly explains, he bought too many books to fit on the existing one. Dean rolls his eyes at that, even as he shucks off his jacket and throws it on the couch. “Alright,” he says, putting a layabout screwdriver behind his ear. “Let’s do this.”

“Don’t you want to read the instructions?” Sam says, picking up a thin paper leaflet and waggling it in Dean’s direction.

“I don’t need instructions,” replies Dean, picking up what seems to be a plank of wood. “I have an affinity for this.”

Ten minutes later, he snatches the leaflet from Sam’s know-it-all hands, ignoring the smug expression on his face and grumbling about fucking screws and jammy shelves.

They work in relative quiet for a while, falling into an ease of passing screwdrivers and bolts and pieces between them. It’s as they’ve balanced the two side pieces onto the bottom piece that Sam says, “What are you really doing here?”

Dean startles and drops the piece he’s holding. He scowls at Sam. “That was your fault.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Sam makes an impressed huff from his nose. “Come on, man. What’s going on?”

“I came to visit, Jesus. What’s with the third degree?”

“You don’t just ‘come to visit’, especially-”

“So, what, I have to write you a letter in advance-”

“When by all accounts you haven’t left Cas’s side-”

“By all accounts? Who’s telling you-”

“Dean!” Sam barks, finally having lost his patience.

The fight goes out of him, and Dean scuffs his heel into the carpet.

He mumbles something, and Sam cups his hand around his ear obnoxiously. “What was that?”

“Cas banned me from the apartment for six hours.” Dean glowers. “Alright?”

Sam presses his lips together very tight. Eventually, he says, croaky like he’s trying very hard not to laugh, “ _Wow._ ”

“I know!” Dean throws up his hands in frustration. “What is his problem?”

“You’re usually so calm when someone you love is injured or sick,” says Sam.

“Exactly!” Dean says, before he recognises the sarcasm. “Wait. The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sam raises his eyebrows, high. “Seriously?” At Dean’s face, he lets out a sigh. “Dean! You are a _nightmare_ smotherer. Remember when I broke my arm when we were kids?”

“I told you not to climb that fucking tree.”

“You wouldn’t leave my side for literal _months_." Sam starts counting them off his fingers. And when Claire was sick with the flu, you made four litres of chicken soup for her. When Charlie-”

“Okay, I get it!” Dean runs a hand through his hair. “I’m a nightmare. Glad to hear that.”

Sam visibly softens. “I – I mean, it is nice to be cared for. But I can see you being a little overkill, that’s all.”

Dean stares down and starts putting the wooden side back up to the shelf piece. He admits to the wood, “I just want to make sure he recovers okay.”

“I get that,” says Sam, tilting his voice gentle. “But it sounds like he is. If he’s feeling well enough to kick you from the apartment, it sounds like he has his mojo back.”

“Right,” says Dean, still not looking up.

Sam audibly pauses. “Unless,” he says. “That’s not all that’s going on.”

Dean stares at the wood.

“Dean?”

“It’s my fault,” says Dean. His eyes cut to Sam, quick, guilty, before back to the wood. “That Cas was hurt, I mean.”

“What the hell?” Sam replies, frowning. “Even for you, that’s a stretch.”

“Jody asked me if I wanted to press charges the first time Dick started causing trouble, and I didn’t. No wonder he felt ballsy enough to come back.” Dean’s fists curl on top of the wood. He wants to hit something, desperately and violently. The scabs are still healing from Dick's face, but he thinks it would worth it to split them open and bleeding again. 

“That’s stupid,” says Sam, blunt as always. “Like, really stupid. You weren’t to know.”

Dean grits his teeth. “That’s not an excuse.”

Sam huffs. “Sometimes I forget how much our childhood fucked us up,” he says, deliberately lightly. “Then you act like this and it all comes rushing back.”

“Oh fuck _off_ ,” says Dean, and throws a screw at his brother’s head. “Like you’re so well-adjusted.”

“At least I go to therapy.”

“You go to _therapy_?” Dean squints, the word making his face contort.

Sam levels an unimpressed look. “If you call me Samantha right now, I swear to God-”

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “No, sorry. I’m just – you never mentioned it before.” He’s quiet, until, because he remains a glutton for punishment, he says, “Your childhood fucked you up, huh?”

Sam’s indignation dissipates, and he says, carefully, “Yeah. But that doesn’t – you did the best you could, Dean. You were a kid too, though.”

Dean’s jaw works. He looks away again. “Right.”

They sit in silence for a bit, until Sam says, “You know, I get a bit overprotective of Eileen, too. I think – because of how we grew up – when we find some stability, we tend to fight tooth and nail for it. Winchester loyalty, I guess.”

Dean glances up. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “And sometimes she has to tell me to back off, too. And we’ve been married four years, so I think we’re doing something right.”

Dean lets that sit for a moment, before he shrugs, and jokes, “Well, there’s probably some things in your marriage that might not be applicable for me and Cas.” At Sam’s blank look, Dean makes a crude gesture involving a pointed finger and the other hand curling to make an ‘o’.

Sam still looks blank. Carefully, he says, “…So you and Cas…don’t?”

It takes Dean a moment, and then he visibly recoils. “What? No!” He shakes his head. “No, there’s nothing – what the fuck, Sam?”

“We always thought you two had something going on,” shrugs Sam. “You look into each other’s eyes – like, a _lot_ , dude.”

Dean gapes. “We do not. There’s nothing-”

Sam raises his hands in defence. “I believe you! I’m just saying.”

“Well, _don’t_.”

But now the idea is there, worming in Dean’s mind. Cas is – objectively – handsome. Big blue eyes and pillow lips and a square jaw softened by stubble. More important, however, is the fact that he’s also Dean’s best friend in the world.

“I mean,” Sam continues, clearly not as concerned about imminent fratricide as he should be. “You two are literally married.” He looks pointedly at the ring on Dean’s finger, and Dean, maturely, shoves said hand into his pocket.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

Sam looks unimpressed. “You gave a very moving speech at _my_ wedding about how much it does mean, actually.”

Dean grits his teeth. “You can’t use best man speeches as ammunition.”

“You cried.”

“Everyone cried, it was a good speech!”

“It was okay.”

Dean’s hands spasm as if throttling his baby brother’s neck. “Please, for the love of god, shut up.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Come on, if we don’t make some headway on this bookcase, Eileen won’t let me buy any more books for a month, and I’ve got my eye on a sixteenth-century collection of lore.”

“Nerd,” says Dean, but he gets to work.

-

When the clock hits four, and Dean’s exile officially ends, Dean finds himself stepping back into the apartment carefully. He shuts the door behind him, and calls out, “Hello?”

The couch is empty, and he’s starting to panic, worrying if Cas went wandering with his newfound freedom, and whether he collapsed from an undiagnosed brain bleed, when the bedroom door opens. Cas comes wandering through, wearing pyjama bottoms and a concert t-shirt Dean recognises as his own.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, neutrally.

Dean scratches the back of his neck. “Hi. I’m back.”

Cas tilts his head, unreadable. “Where did you end up?”

“I helped Sam build a bookshelf,” says Dean. He steps a little closer, towards the living space, and says, “He, uh, said I can be overbearing sometimes.”

“Did he?” Cas is smirking, a tilt to his lips that Dean rolls his eyes at.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean shrugs off his jacket, slinging it over one of the dining room chairs they never sit at. “What did you get up to, then?”

Cas walks forward, close enough to touch if Dean wanted to. His hair is ruffled from sleep. “I read a bit. Had a nap,” and gestures to his hair to illustrate. His smile twists a little, and he says, “Mostly, I, um. I missed you.”

Dean can’t help the smile that breaks across his face, and to hide it, he pulls Cas into a tight, full-body hug. “You did, huh? You missed someone who just six hours ago, you compared to a mother bear?”

Cas lets out a breath of laughter and wraps his arms around Dean’s back. “Maybe.”

“I am sorry, you know,” admits Dean, easy to do so into Cas’s hair. “I know I can be annoying.”

“It’s okay,” says Cas into the meat between Dean’s neck and his shoulder. “I know I worried you.”

Dean pulls back, just enough to move his hand from Cas’s hair to his jaw. “You’re my best friend,” Dean says, and he’s close enough to feel the warmth of Cas’ breath against his chin, and his fingertips are combed through the dark curls behind Cas’s ears. “You- you’re.” He falters, because every noun that comes to mind somehow isn't enough.

Cas just quirks a smile. “I care very much for you too, Dean. You know that.”

Something in Dean’s head goes totally blank. He’s just – caught in the blue of Cas’s eyes and the pillow of his mouth and the way he just _means_ that.

So, he kisses Cas, as the only reply that make sense.

He has a split-second to panic, before Cas kisses him back.

Cas surges against him, plush lips soft and stubble harsh, and his hands curl into Dean’s side, and Dean steps up close, all along Cas’s front, and he loses his fucking mind in the hot-soft slick of Cas’s lips. 

Cas lets out a small noise, from the back of his throat, and Dean kisses it away, his hands clasping Cas’s face tight to keep him where he wants. He licks into Cas’s mouth, and the kiss twists desperate and frantic. Cas’s hands claw symbols into Dean’s back and he sighs a hopeless, “ _Dean_ ,” against Dean’s lips

They break apart at the same time – for air, perhaps. Dean doesn’t let go of Cas’s face, but he feels Cas’s hands go slack from where they previously dug on either side of his spine. They stare at each other for a long moment, their breath one between them.

Cas opens his mouth to say something, and Dean’s too chickenshit to hear it, so he grabs him back into another searing kiss. 

“Fuck,” curses Cas, in between hard kisses, like it’s sucker-punched from him, and Dean’s lips curl into a satisfied smile. Cas notices, and bites down on Dean’s bottom lip, tugging it as admonishment.

Dean’s hands go roaming, one staying curling in the softness of Cas’s hair whilst the other trails down Cas’s front. An errant thought flutters into Dean’s mind, a freak-out waiting for attention and tapping on his brain like, ‘we gonna talk about this, bud?’ but it disappears in the slick slide of Cas’s lips.

(He fucking knew they’d be soft, he always knew.)

Now the thought is there, the proof of Cas being hot enough to burn, he has to follow through. He pushes at the same time Cas pulls, and they knock against the couch as one. Cas doesn’t even blink, he falls back and tugs Dean until he’s sat on Cas’s lap.

This should be weird. Or weird for how it’s not. All Dean knows is that when he sinks into Cas, Cas is there to hold him. Dean wraps his arms around Cas’s shoulders, and sits down in his lap, and they’re both grinding before Dean could think to suggest it. Cas gasps against Dean’s mouth on one particular downstroke, a jumpstart, “Uh, fuck,” and his head clunks against the couch back.

Dean doesn’t let him go, hunches his back so he can kiss along that stupid-square jaw and suck a mark where the hinge of it meets his skull. Cas flinches at the suction, and his hand flies to Dean’s ass and squeezes it. Dean takes that as approval, and kisses his way down Cas’s neck, and back up, and then tugs on Cas’s earlobe with his teeth, right where there’s a healed-up earring scar.

“Guh,” says Cas, and Dean huffs a laugh against the whorl of his ear, and Cas shudders, and the movement against his junk makes Dean let out a pant of his own. “Dean, fuck.”

“Do you want to?” Dean asks, hush-quiet, before he can worry about it.

Cas’s gaze flickers over him, big and blown-out, and a cold rock settles in Dean’s gut at the thought of Cas saying no. But instead, he says, hands tight on each of Dean’s jean-clad ass cheeks, “If you do, yes.”

The desire flicking through Dean gives him the confidence to let out a small laugh and he gyrates against Cas’s lap. Cas goes a little cross-eyed at the sensation. “Yeah, fuck. Yes,” says Dean, and he pulls his t-shirt over his head and flings it somewhere behind him.

Cas pulls a face. “You hit the Chamaedorea plant.”

Dean rolls his eyes and tugs him back into a kiss. “I’ll buy you a new one,” he whispers, and it sounds like a promise for something else. Cas swallows, and kisses Dean, hard. His hands roam over the bare skin Dean revealed, running a calloused hand up Dean’s stomach, tweaking a nipple and making Dean bite on his swollen lip.

“My room,” says Cas, apropos of nothing, like it’s pulled from him. He curls a hand in Dean’s hair and _tugs_ , making Dean hiss.

Dean croaks out, not quite joking, “Yessir,” but he keeps making out with Cas, rubbing against each other, sloppy and desperate. Cas grips the back of Dean’s legs, and holds him steady as he thrusts _up_ , and Dean lets out a groan against his mouth. “Fuck, fine, yes, bedroom. Now.”

He clambers off Cas inelegantly, mostly because he can’t bear to stop touching him. As soon as Cas is standing too, he tugs at the hem of his (well, Dean’s) t-shirt and flings it away as well. He gets caught on all that warm, broad skin, flecks of chest hair and perk nipples. Dean reaches to brush his thumbs over both of them, wonders if they’re as sensitive as a woman’s, and then gets distracted by Cas’s tongue in his mouth and the stubble rasping over his lips.

They stagger to the bedroom by muscle memory, occasionally crashing into the wall to kiss and touch and rut. Cas is breathing heavy and Dean isn’t much better, until finally Cas pushes at his shoulders and Dean falls back against the bed. He has a second to just look, pushing himself up on his elbows and staring up at Cas. For his part, Cas looks, just for a moment, lost, his gaze skittering over Dean like it doesn’t know where to land.

“Cas?” Dean asks, and it comes out softer than he planned.

Whatever stalled him shifts, and Cas’s eyes turn blazing and sure. He bends down and presses a bruising kiss against Dean’s navel as he pulls apart Dean’s belt and buckle. He tugs away Dean’s jeans, and Dean shifts his hips to help. His reward is quickly delivered: Cas licks a sticky stripe along the bulge of Dean’s boxers, and Dean lets out a yelp at the sensation.

“Cas!” He says, falling back against the bed.

He feels, as much as hears, the soft chuckle against his dick, and then deft, large fingers and pulling him from his underwear. He doesn’t even have a moment to feel self-conscious, as Cas tugs his boxers away and promptly swallows Dean’s dick whole.

“Ah!” Dean gasps, half-sitting up to throw a careless hand into Cas’s hair. Cas bobs his mouth and Dean loses all sense of time and reality in his wet heat. Tension curls in his gut, and he’s saying nonsense words garbled between hitching breath, and then Cas lets him go with a swirl of his tongue.

“I can keep going,” says Cas, and his voice is hoarse from Dean’s dick, which alone makes his balls tighten. “But I figured – if you did want…”

He trails off, and Dean’s sex-dumb mind is left to translate. He nods, once he gets it, and crooks his finger, and Cas crawls closer to give him another deep kiss. Dean can taste himself on Cas's tongue. “Yeah,” says Dean. “Yeah, I want you.”

Cas’s hand spasms on Dean’s hip. He kisses, sweeter now, and says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Dean, again, and spreads his legs as wide around Cas’s thighs, to make clear how exactly he wants him.

“Okay, sweetheart.” Cas’s smile is something hot to even look at, and the pet name makes Dean shudder

“But,” Dean gasps in between more of those gentle kisses. “Be gentle with me?” And he’s only half-joking.

Cas’s face does _something_ at that, something unbearably soft, and he leans down to press a kiss against the ball of Dean’s shoulder. “When am I ever not?”

Dean doesn’t have a good response to that.

Cas leans past him to grab the lube, and Dean takes the opportunity to grip at his dick through his plaid pyjama pants, delighting in the cut-off groan it elicits. He strokes, absent-mindedly, until Cas returns with an open-capped tube and shining fingers.

The first intrusion is – well, Dean’s expecting it, after his own research post-bi-crisis. A little strange, a little uncomfortable, but he begs for more and the second finger makes all the difference. He feels full, and it’s so much _better_ with someone else’s fingers inside him, especially when they’re fingers as wide as Cas’s.

He’s clutching at Cas, who’s panting into his mouth with one hand curled by his head and the other busy stroking inside of Dean. He’s garbling prayers to a god he doesn’t believe in and thrusting up to rub his dick against Cas’s navel. He tugs at Cas’s pyjama pants where he can reach them, and then Cas adds another finger and he tenses, seizes up. He yanks Cas down and kisses him savagely. “I’m ready,” he promises, in between heady breaths. “Come on, _come on_.”

“You’re beautiful,” replies Cas, sounding reverent, and that is really not the _point_.

Dean scoffs, and clenches down on Cas’s fingers. “I’ll show you beautiful,” he threatens, nonsensically, and that at least makes Cas hide a smile in his neck. He kicks his heel against Cas’s thigh to spur him on, and all Cas does is press a toothy kiss against his neck.

“I promised to be gentle,” Cas says, and Dean flushes a deep red from his torso to his ears. “You deserve it, and I want to, so I will.”

“Well,” says Dean, without an end to the sentence at all. He, instead, finishes lamely, “If you insist, I guess.”

Cas continues to finger him, careful and brutal at the same goddamn time, sparks jumping through his body every time he curls his fingers and sucks marks at odd spots across his skin. Finally, when Dean is begging and pleading in desperation, dick flushed hard and red, Cas grabs a condom. He pulls out his fingers and wipes them on the bedsheet, and Dean trembles a little at the loss. Before he can freak out, Cas lines up, and asks, “Is this okay?”

“Yeah, _please_ , Cas-” And then his mouth falls open, silent, as Cas pushes inside. He drags his mouth along Dean’s jaw, moving down to press his face in Dean’s throat and nips at the skin there. He nudges at the bottom of Dean’s jaw, and Dean bares his neck, stretching his gaze to the ceiling as he holds onto Cas for all he’s worth. “Oh fuck,” says Dean, a little faintly.

“I’m _trying_ ,” huffs Cas, and Dean snorts despite himself.

He runs a hand through Cas’s sweat-damp hair, and tugs, just gently. Cas goes with it, pushes up just enough so he can brush his nose against Dean’s. The movement is achingly tender, and heat prickles at Dean’s eyes. He’s never felt so – held. “I’m glad it’s you,” he confesses before he should, before he even knows what he means by that.

But Cas must understand – Cas always gets it – because his eyes soften into something liquid and potent, and he kisses Dean so sweetly. “Me too,” he says, and then he bottoms out, and Dean sees stars.

They move together, like something spiritual. Each bone-deep thrust makes Dean’s toes curl and some kind of profanity slip from his lips, whether a curse or Cas’s name. Their skin is damp where it touches, and Dean’s hand skitters over Cas’s before settling on the meat of his ass. He squeezes, and Cas stutters on his next thrust, and Dean lets out a gasp. Their bodies connect along every inch of skin, and every fresh touch sets off a reverb.

Dean’s mind is slowly melting through his ears, and he’s close, been close for a while, but Cas won’t speed up into anything urgent. Dean is horrified to discover he’s _crying_ , tears leaking from the outside of his eyes.

He tugs his hand through Cas’s hair again, and he pulls him down into a sloppy wet kiss, and their teeth clack with Cas’s next push, but Dean can’t bear to not be joined here too. He whispers against Cas’s lips, “ _Please_ ,” he says, and in case that’s not enough, he says, “You’re so good to me, Cas. You are. Come on, sweetheart, I want you to come in me.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says, like a beg or admission or something in between. He pulls back, enough to shift the angle inside and make Dean moan, and he pulls Dean’s thighs so they wrap around his rib cage. He hikes his own leg closer in the space left behind, and then thrusts again, and Dean is going to lose his mind.

Cas speeds up, now, balls sleeping filthily against Dean’s cheeks, and Dean lets out a desperate sound, and reaches above him to grip into the sheets. Cas reaches for him, changing the angle _again,_ and slots his fingers between Dean’s own so they clasp together tight.

With Cas's other hand, while he still fucks him deep, he wraps a sweaty hand around Dean’s dick, and Dean writhes. He’s chanting now, a stream of pleas, and then Cas tugs, jerks him off fast, and Dean is _done_ for. He comes, hard and shouting, striping over his own chest. He opens his eyes just in time to see Cas’s eyes go wild and desperate, and then he stutters into Dean’s ass and comes. He lets out one long breath, and then goes limp, falling bodily on top of Dean. 

“Oof,” says Dean, half-heartedly, but he wraps his arms around Cas anyway.

“Sorry,” says Cas into Dean’s pec, not sounding as he means it. But then he gets off, and slips out, and ignores Dean’s wince in order to dispose of the condom and reach for some wet wipes he apparently keeps under his bed. Dean will tease him about that later, but for now, endorphins and a pleasant soreness and the return of Cas’s soft kisses keep him content. Cas pulls the sheets over them and pulls Dean close.

“That was okay, right?” Dean asks before he means to.

Cas looks at him with warm eyes, and says, “Yeah, Dean. That was perfect. You're wonderful.”

Dean’s eyes drift shut and he’s smiling up at the ceiling as he says, sleepily, “Cool.”

-

He wakes a couple of hours later with Cas spooned up behind him. It’s warm, and Dean is damp with sweat all over. He rubs a hand over his face and knocks his elbow against the arm slung across his torso. Cas mumbles something unintelligible into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean smiles a little at his grouchiness.

He’s awake now, and the clock on Cas’ wall reads quarter to ten. He watches it tick, and wonders what the post-fuck procedure is. If this were a one-night-stand, he’d be leaving. If it were a girlfriend, he’d probably have a book close-by to read, or his phone to fuck about on until either she wakes up or he falls asleep.

He reaches for a half-full glass of water on the bedside table instead, with his left hand. He’s clumsy in the night, and the metal of his ring _chinks_ against the glass.

He freezes, but it’s not enough to wake Cas, whose hand just tightens on Dean’s ribcage. Dean pulls his hand back, and his eyes catch on it. He curls his hand on the mattress, close to his face, and stares at the glint of silver. His pulse begins to beat fast, twisting up his stomach and his heart.

He has to- he has to get up.

He sits, and Cas’s arm falls away. He pushes the sheets away from his naked skin and plants his feet on the ground. He chances a look behind him and stares at the man dozing beside him.

“Dean,” Cas mumbles, half into his pillow, with his arm outstretched. “Can you wait until the morning for your freak out?”

“I’m not freaking out,” lies Dean, and fuck, Cas knows him too well, because his eyes cracks open in suspicion.

Whatever he sees in Dean’s posture must mean something to him, because he props himself up on one elbow to squint at Dean. The sheet falls away from his bare chest. “Wait,” he says, voice rough from sleep. “Are you actually?”

“No,” lies Dean, again. He can’t look at Cas, not right now, not when the bruises on his neck are in the shape of Dean’s mouth. He turns away. “I’m going to get food.” He snatches up his jeans and stuffs his legs through them, foregoing underwear that will take too long to find. The denim is rough against the emerging on his ass.

“Dean-” Cas’s voice is something careful, and Dean is shaking from underneath his skin.

“Do you want anything?” Dean cuts across him. He’s not fooling anyone, least of all Cas, but he grabs one of Cas’s t-shirts to pull on. “Thai, maybe?”

“Dean,” says Cas, calm as if he’s fighting to remain so. “Please don’t leave. Not like this.”

Dean twitches. He needs to escape like a visceral thing, like the room is lighting on fire around him. He rubs a hand over his jaw, and says to the opposite wall, “Don’t get clingy, Cas. I had to try out this bi thing with _someone_ , right?”

Cas doesn’t reply, and Dean’s a coward who doesn’t look back.

-

It’s 10pm according to the Impala’s clock. He drives out of town, for an hour where his fingers drum on the wheel and his skin itches. He can still smell the sweat-stick-must of sex, and when he parks outside a bar he doesn’t recognise, he pulls out cheap deodorant from the glove compartment to spray over himself.

He walks inside, and it’s reasonably busy for a Thursday evening. He might be biased, but the décor is a little too chic and modern, and when he hobbles over to the bar, the stools are plastic and unstained.

He shifts a little once seated before he realises how transparent his discomfort must be, along with the reason for it, and he forces himself to stop. He rests his forearms on the bar, and stares at the liquor shelves waiting for him. He glances over to the pool tables, but there are just college kids playing – he’d kill for a trucker to pick a fight with right now.

Eventually, a woman with dark curls and a hand-scrawled “Billie” on her nametag comes over to serve him. “What’ll it be?” she asks, sounding bored.

He has just the energy to cock a grin at her, and ask, “Your most mediocre whiskey please, sweetheart.”

Her face sours at the nickname – and so does his own, as he remembers Cas whispering it into his ear, the echo reverberating like fucking stereo sound. He pulls a face, and says, before she walks away, “That was uncalled for. I didn’t – it’s been a weird night.”

She watches him for a moment, with cool eyes, and then shrugs, measures out a couple of fingers for him, and sets it down. She does go far and leans back against the shelves. She picks up a glass and begins toweling it dry. “Weird night, huh?” she prompts.

He takes a sip – she made a perfect choice of whiskey, neither too cheap to drink nor richer than he deserves – and swallows. He sets the glass back down, thumbs the condensation on the outside, and says, “You playin’ therapist?”

“Comes with the job description.”

“Right,” he says, nodding, and takes another swallow. Then, rushing out of him, he says, “I fucked things up. You must get that all the time – but really. I did.”

“Well,” she replies, after a moment where Springsteen croons from the stereo. “Do you think it's fixable?”

He downs his drink rather than answer. He taps a finger against it, and says, “Can I get a refill?”

She leaves him alone after that. Better that way, probably. He runs a finger around the rim of his fresh glass and sits there thinking.

The thing is – tonight was stupid. Objectively, it was. It was a one-night-stand, a fuck, with someone Dean has lived with for ten years. Someone he works with. Someone who is his damned best friend in the world.

He considers calling Sammy. Maybe he’d come hang out. But the thought proves itself stupid as soon as it arrives. Sam wouldn’t come to a strange bar at 11am on a Thursday. And even if he did – what would he say?

_“Hey Sam – remember literally thirteen hours ago when I said there was nothing going on between Cas and I? Well, now I’ve had his cock up my ass and I loved it, but I’m not sure it was worth fucking up our friendship for.”_

Yeah, he’s sure that would go down well.

He swills around the glass. It’s just – he was settled into the norm. Coming out was already his year’s allotted excitement. He doesn’t have the energy for more change.

He looks up, and his eyes set on where Cas’s wood carving is. Or, rather, where it should be.

But this is an unfamiliar bar, not the Roadhouse, and instead of a hand-carved bee, there’s just a bottle of Jack and a hung-up calendar marking the employees’ shift patterns.

Still, he stares at the spot, as if waiting long enough will make the bee reappear. He’s lost in that moment, eyes wide and lips parted.

He remembers, with startling clarity, the decision to suggest marriage to Cas. Sure, lawyers were expensive, but for fuck's sake, his brother is one. By that point, Cas probably even qualified for a citizen in his own right. And Dean was - _is_ \- intelligent enough to understand the legislation and paperwork if he spent more than two panic-fuelled days on it. 

That was the crux of it, really - the panic. The panic that Cas could _leave_. So Dean didn't just find a way to tie him to the country or the state.

He found a way to tie Cas to Dean himself. 

He’s a fucking idiot, he realises, in one whoosh as if someone had physically hit him with the realisation.

He looks down at his trembling hands.

He wants Cas. He wants him more than a friend, and more than sex. He wants Cas in all the ways possible there is to want someone. And it’s safer to push him back than let him in. Safer than letting himself want all that, for himself, selfishly, in case someone takes it away. In case Cas _chose_ to leave. 

He even-

Billie comes over, and interrupts his revelation with a neutral, “Refill?”

“No, he says, soft at first and then stronger as he stands. “No. I’m going to go home.”

-

On impulse, he drives by the local gas station on the way back for a quick purchase.

-

The apartment is quiet and dark when he returns. The kitchen clock reads a gnarly 1 am.

He swallows his goddamn pride and raps his knuckles against the bedroom door. “Cas? Come on. Can we talk?”

Silence.

He deserves that.

He thuds his forehead against the door and knocks again. “I don’t believe you’re asleep,” he says. “And I know – you have every right to be pissed at me. I am exactly the piece of shit you’re thinking I am right now. I freaked out – you probably saw that coming before I did. You seem to know everything about me, so.”

He lets out a long sigh. He closes his eyes.

“I don’t want to say this through a door, Cas. Please.”

The silence continues, permeating in the darkness of the unlit apartment, until the door suddenly swings open and Dean has to catch on the arch to stop himself falling forward. There’s the flick of a switch, and the bedroom light illuminates them both from within, and Dean squints against it.

Cas stands there, hand still on the door as if ready to slam it shut again. Dean moves his hand from the doorway, just in case. “What.”

Dean clears his throat. “I brought you something.”

He lifts up the sad tomato plant and thrusts it at Cas’s chest. It’s an ugly thing, uglier still in the light of the overhead bulb, and Cas takes it from instinct more than anything. He stares at it for a moment.

“I’m, uh,” he says. “Making up for lost time. Come on.” And he gestures for Cas to follow him through, into the living room. To his surprise, Cas does so, steps soft behind him. He’s wearing a new t-shirt, a different one of Dean’s, along with his boxer-briefs. Dean chooses not to bring that up right now.

Dean’s pathetic offering sits on the coffee table like a strange decoration. Cas tugs on the string of a nearby table lamp, and illuminates the space.

Into the quiet, Cas finally admits, in a dull tone, “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

Dean swallows. “Right. Well, the first anniversary is paper.” He points to the wad of printer paper, promising great ink and photocopy results. “And the second anniversary is cotton.” There’s a cheap t-shirt that reads the logo of the gas station, in a size too small to fit either of them.

“Dean-” says Cas, but Dean barrels on.

“And leather is for the third year.” He jerks a finger at the fucking leather dog collar with an empty name tag hanging from it and prays Cas doesn’t get the wrong idea from _that_ , at least.

Finally, he gesturess to the tomato plant Cas still cups in one palm.

“Fourth year is fruit or veg,” he finishes. “I, um. I suppose I was hoping it wouldn’t be too late to celebrate them all. With you, I mean.”

Cas stares at him and then looks back at the coffee table. He wanders over and puts down the plant with his sad friends. He reaches for the t-shirt. He finds the tag, letting it rest on two fingertips. “We used to sell these-”

“At the Gas’n’Sip, yeah, I know,” Dean finishes for him. “I didn’t have a lot of selection on the drive back, and I didn’t exactly want to wait for an Amazon delivery.”

“You shouldn’t buy from Amazon anyway, they’re-”

“Yeah, Cas, I _know_ , small business et cetera, can we focus up here?”

Cas raises a mild brow that they both know is designed to make Dean sweat. “My apologies,” he says, flat, because he’s not sorry at all, the little shit. “You had a point to all this, then?”

Dean says, because otherwise he never will, “I’m _sorry_ , okay? I am. I used you and I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have said what I said afterward either. I didn't mean it.”

“Why did you, then?” Cas levels him with a hard stare. Any bemusement at the gifts has been shifted away. “ _You_ kissed _me_. _You_ suggested we fuck. _You_ said – what you said - afterward, and _you_ ran away. You always do this. You push us a little further and see if I’ll come with you, and then when I do, you pretend it never happened.”

“I – I don’t,” Dean stutters, weakly.

“You _do_ ,” Cas insists. He blinks fast, and it’s then that Dean realises that his eyes are shining damp. “You asked me to work on The Roadhouse with you, and you suggested I move in here with you. For fuck’s sake, Dean, _you_ suggested we get married.”

“Okay. Yeah, I did,” Dean is forced to admit, laid all out like that in a pattern, and his voice cracks. Time to come out with it, then. “I do. I always – I can’t do anything without you. It’s sad, actually. I think all our friends know it. I think you probably do too.”

Something like conflict flickers over Cas’s face. “That’s not fair. You’re stronger than you know.”

“That’s not what I mean,” says Dean. His hands rise and then flop back down. “I don’t mean that you complete me. I’m a whole person, or whatever. But you complete my life. Does that make sense?”

The quiet hangs between them, before Cas says, tenderly, “I think it does.”

Dean swallows. “Kissing you, and- and doing what we did earlier. It was like I’d been hit over the head, and I freaked out. But - We’ve already been building a life together. I think you knew that, ‘cause you’ve always been less dense than me." He holds his palms out. "But I’m here now, hoping you’ll forgive me for taking so long to realise it myself.”

Cas is watching him, and even in the light, Dean can see the frost melting away, the twitch of a smile emerging even with his eyes still shining. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” nods Dean, letting out a huff of relief. “Fuck, dude. I – you’re _it_ for me. Whether we’re just friends, or roommates, or maybe more. You’re my person.”

Cas presses his lips together, and steps around the coffee table so there’s mere feet between them. “And if I wanted the ‘maybe more’ bit? What then?”

“I’d,” Dean licks across his bottom lip. “I would like that a lot.”

Cas makes a small ‘hum’ sound.

“Also,” Dean says, because he may as well go for broke. “If it’s relevant to your decision: I love you. Like, stupidly.”

Cas squints at him, half-smiling. “Dean, I know.”

Dean frowns. “You watched _Star Wars_ once, dude, I’m not sure now is an appropriate time-”

“No, Dean, I know. I’ve known for a while.” At Dean’s expression, which is way beyond his control at this point, Cas’s smile grows, a fond thing that stretches his lips thin. “I was waiting for you to catch up, honestly. I didn't want to push you.”

Dean’s mouth is hanging open a little bit. “That is literally not possible, Cas. I only realised it about an hour and a half ago.”

Cas rolls his eyes, and Dean would be very annoyed right now if it weren’t belied by the growing, gummy smile on Cas’s face. “Sweetheart,” he says, tender and kind. “You asked me to _marry_ you. Five years ago. I’m surprised it took you this long, honestly.”

Dean is frowning, and trying not to. “Jesus." When he says it like that, it seems obvious. "You couldn’t have let me know a little earlier?”

Cas shrugs. “I was waiting for you to work it out. Seemed only fair, since I’ve been in love with you for all that time, too.”

“Oh,” says Dean, as abrupt as the stop of his heartbeat. He licks his bottom lip, and Cas watches the movement. “You, uh – you do?”

Cas steps close, right up into his space so he has to tilt just a little to keep eye contact. “I do. Even when you snore through _Blue Planet_.”

“You know, this is really not the reaction I was hoping for,” Dean complains, but he’s a hypocrite who’s already wrapping his arms around him.

Cas makes a contented hum. “My apologies,” he murmurs, close and across Dean’s ear, and Dean shivers at the sensation.

He takes a step back, as far as Dean’s arms will let him, and those blue eyes pierce straight into Dean’s gut.

“Dean Winchester,” he says. “I love you too. If we were not already married, I would march you, right now, to a priest myself.”

“That’s more like it,” Dean grumbles, but his ears and cheeks are burning a warm pink.

Cas smiles, the kind of smile Dean has stared at before without knowing why. He says, “I liked how you said it, though. I like the idea of building a life together. And continuing to.”

Dean strokes a thumb along each side of Cas’s jaw, cupping his face gently. “Yeah. Me too.”

And he kisses his husband.

-

They announce their vow renewals for early next year – their friends’ reactions range from delighted (Eileen) to confused (Benny) to a little aggravated (Sam, who asks why Dean feels the need to have three more weddings than most people).

Dean cries through the ceremony and will ferociously deny it to anyone who brings it up. (Claire also cries, but everyone is already too scared to bring it up to her.) Rowena gets drunk and tells anyone who’ll listen that she taught both Winchester boys how to be gay, and Charlie manages to make a playlist that spells out a Princess Leia pun. Sam makes a best man speech that brings the whole damn room to tears. Cas drags Dean onto the floor for a slow dance that Dean only pretends to be embarrassed by.

They wear their original rings throughout – but for the ceremony, they exchange ones of iron, too, for their sixth wedding anniversary.

-

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at postdivorcedean - I use too many hyphens there, too


End file.
